


Bond Night Is Go

by sorion



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, Character Study, Established Relationship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 04:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorion/pseuds/sorion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock hasn’t reported back in a while, and I haven’t been able to contact him. This should be rectified, immediately, since we have new information on his last target and reason to believe that the target might have become the hunter, himself. And my brother, for his many talents, is not an assassin.”</p><p>Established 00Q (friends-to-lovers Sherlock/John, later)</p><p>Can be seen as a sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/614470/chapters/1108014">Mister Kiss Kiss Bang Bang</a>, but it works as a stand-alone.</p><p>COMPLETED</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bond Night Is Go

  


Bond recognises the man sitting in front of M’s desk immediately, despite never having seen him and there not being any family resemblance.

As he closes the door, M greets him with, “Ah, 007,” Bond responds with a nod and, “Sir,” while M’s guest turns his head and stands to greet him.

No, definitely no family resemblance at first glance, Bond decides. But it’s not the physical appearance that makes him so certain about the man’s identity. It’s the power his stance and expression are practically oozing. Not the public power of a politician. No, no. _Real_ power.

Bond approaches the man and holds out his hand. “Mister Holmes.”

Holmes gives him an approving half-smile, moves his umbrella from his right hand to his left and shakes Bond’s. “Mycroft, please,” Holmes says, his voice sounding like the slickest silk possible to hide the knives behind it. “It is, after all, high time we finally meet.”

Bond isn’t sure if that was a reprimand for not meeting earlier, a compliment for managing to avoid it, or merely the expected verbiage.  
“Indeed,” is all he says.  
Then again, it was probably the latter. Bond doubts that Mycroft would be here on a private whim.

The pleasantries are exchanged, and Bond and Mycroft each take a seat in front of the desk.

M comes right to the point. “What do you know about Sherlock Holmes, 007?”

Bond notices Mycroft facing him out of the corner of his eye. “It would have been hard to miss the news on that one, last year.”

M nods as a signal for him to continue.

“While the Quartermaster doesn’t talk about his family, he has mentioned two brothers at some point. I suppose that, since the exceptional minds run in the family...” He sends Mycroft a brief _look_. After all, one does not attain that kind of position without a remarkable intellect. Also, he assumes that even – or particularly – geniuses are not immune to flattery. (He already knows that Q is not.)  
“... It’s safe to assume that the case of Sherlock Holmes is not quite as simple as the media would have liked to make the public believe.”

“It’s not,” M confirms.

“I also did some superficial research on his cases.” He doesn’t add, _’In case you or Q will want me to do something about it.’_ Instead, he asks, “He’s alive?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft shifts in his seat, directing the other men’s attention to him, while his hand remains on the handle of his umbrella in his hand. “My brother has found himself in a situation in which he had little choice but to disappear if he wanted to save the ones closest to him.” He peeks at Bond. “The ones that are well known and are presenting easy targets, that is.” He smiles a slow smile, one that is hardly even there. “While Sherlock has always found it easier to relate to Desmond than me, there has been little contact between them, and Desmond’s records are, shall we say, rather tricky to come by, as you well know. And no enemy of his would have targeted me, as our relationship is strained at best, and a threat to me would hardly coerce him to do anything against his will.” Mycroft’s smile grows as he notices the steely look he receives from Bond. “I assure you, James, that your Quartermaster was quite safe, from _this_ threat, at least.”

Bond ignores the accusing quip that MI6 hasn’t been able to protect Q from the near-kidnapping a while back. He can’t avoid the stiffening of his muscles, however.

M doesn’t feel the need to ignore it. “The threat to your brother was minimal, thanks to the additional training Commander Bond has taken upon himself to give him, and, with all due respect, we didn’t have the threat to him safely locked away only to let them go, again.”

Mycroft turns to look at him. “A miscalculation,” he says, the tone of his voice not quite as dismissive as he’s attempted. “Not one of my prouder moments, I admit, and not one I care to repeat. Hence my asking you for assistance.”

Bond clears his throat. “So, your brother is off chasing James Moriarty?”

“James Moriarty is dead – however unfortunate the delay may have been – and the body has been… taken care of.” He straightens in his seat. “Sherlock is attempting to make sure that there are no remaining operatives who could finish the job Moriarty paid them for, in the case Sherlock were to survive the rather dramatic final confrontation.”

Bond knows all about that confrontation. While Q never mentioned Sherlock, Bond has kept an eye and ear out for the information he could get his hands on. He even managed to find a recording from a mobile phone that is still being kept under lock and key by various secret services, mostly because Q allows certain crossings of clearance levels on occasion that he probably shouldn’t and to which M fakes ignorance. Doctor John Watson is a person he was surprised to find in his research. Not a person he would have expected to follow around a crazed detective and now becoming a target despite of the laws his detective has bent to protect him.  
Still… since Moriarty apparently has been dead a while, that begs the question…  
“And he needs help?”

Mycroft sighs. “Sherlock hasn’t reported back in a while, and I haven’t been able to contact him. This should be rectified, immediately, since we have new information on his last target and reason to believe that the target might have become the hunter, himself. And my brother, for his many talents, is not an assassin.”

M pushes a folder across his desk towards Bond. “Have you heard of Sebastian Moran?”

Bond pauses and ignores the file. “ _Colonel_ Sebastian Moran?”

“Yes,” M confirms. “Though dishonourably discharged.”

“And rightfully so,” Bond snaps. “I thought he was serving time.”

“He was meant to, years ago,” Mycroft says, taking over from M, again. “He has seen fit to disappear before the trial.” He taps his umbrella on the floor, once. “You see how it is imperative to find Sherlock before Moran finds him, and I’m afraid that is beyond my people’s capabilities. I need someone who knows how Sherlock thinks and has the means at his disposal to track him.”

Bond smiles, slightly amused. “And why are you up here instead of in Q-Branch?”

Mycroft stretches his shoulders and moves to stand. “I merely went through the appropriate channels.”

M stands as well, Bond follows suit, and M adds, “Once Sherlock Holmes has been found, I want you on it, 007. Moran needs to be taken out.”

Bond nods. “Done.”

“Then there is the safety of the targeted civilians. Since Moran assumingly knows about Holmes’ survival, and we are currently unaware of his location, they might be in danger.” He nods towards Mycroft. “We will have to do something about that.”

 

On the way to Q-Branch, Mycroft strides alongside Bond.

“So, James, my brother has managed to settle in at his new position, I take it?”

Bond quirks a smile. “If you want somebody to spy on Q, you’re asking the wrong person.”

“You misunderstand me. I do of course already have an answer to that question. It is, after all, quite obvious. I was merely attempting to make conversation.”

“Forgive me if I don’t find that likely, Mycroft.”

“Bond,” M interrupts before Bond can go on. He’s not sure how much his agent knows about Mycroft Holmes, but the last thing he needs is having Holmes out for MI6 because Bond – as per usual – doesn’t know when to stop baiting.

“Quite alright, Gareth,” Mycroft says, sounding sufficiently magnanimous. “I was not asking in any official capacity. Despite the radio silence between myself and my brothers, I was happy to hear of his newly found interpersonal connection.”

“Relationship,” Bond says. “The word you’re looking for is relationship.”

Mycroft smiles, ruefully. “Indeed. You may have realised by now that we Holmeses are not well-versed in the concept. All the more reason to be happy for Desmond.”

Bond doesn’t have an answer for that (and he’s too sceptical to just accept the filial approval as what it appears to be), and M releases the breath he’s been holding.

 

When entering Q-Branch, Q is standing to the side, looking over the shoulder of the one remaining programmer who is still designing at this hour, inspecting something on the screen. He can hear the steps behind him, but holds up a hand.  
“One moment, please.”  
After a few moments, he straightens, grinning. “Excellent work. This should find an application or two.”

His programmer grins back. “Thank you, sir,” he says, before saving and closing the files and leaving his work station.

Q turns, expecting Bond (he knows those steps) and possibly Tanner (or M)... and freezes.

Mycroft smiles politely in a way that makes Bond’s skin crawl.  
“Quartermaster,” he greets his brother. “You have made quite the work place for yourself...”

Q walks closer but remains at a respectable distance. “What can I do for you, Mister Holmes?”

Mycroft’s smile melts away. “I need you to find Sherlock.”

Q’s eyes flicker first to M and then to Bond. He’s not sure what to make of the unpleasantly complacent expressions. He knows just how... _persuasive_ his brother can get, and he is somewhat disappointed that both M and Bond would fall for it.  
“Forgive me, but if he does not want to be found, I’m certain there is a reason for it.”

“Colonel Sebastian Moran,” Mycroft says, knowing that there is no need to start with long-winded explanations. Not with Q. “I’m sure you will be able to find him in your database. He is the last remaining strand of Moriarty’s network, and he has fallen off our grid.” He pauses effectively, if only for a moment. “We have reason to believe that he may be about to turn tables on Sherlock and will either kill him first or go after the people Sherlock... _died_ to protect.”  
He tilts his head towards the main work station. “Feel free to confirm that information.”

“I’m afraid there is no time for familial disagreements,” M interrupts. “Q, find Sherlock Holmes. Bond will be sent to take out the target, hopefully _before_ the target gets to Holmes.”

Q swallows the dirty look he wants to send M. “Yes, sir.” He can’t help turning to Bond before starting on his work. “You know Moran?”

Bond nods. “Make it quick.”

That’s all he needs to hear. Mycroft’s machinations being what they are doesn’t change the fact that nobody can pinpoint a threat like Bond.  
Q walks to the centre of the room and starts up his personal machines. “Where and when was Sherlock’s last confirmed location?”

“Three weeks ago, on the fourteenth. Hong Kong.”

Q starts typing, his eyes flying over four different screens. “That will be all,” he says, dismissively without turning around.

M nods, addressing Bond. “You’re to stay here and leave the moment we have a position.”

“Yes, sir.” He steps up next to Q and follows the trails as much as he is able.

“What about the other three targets?” M asks Mycroft. “Will you have them brought to a secure location?”

Mycroft shifts and twirls the umbrella with the tip on the floor. “I’m afraid they are... somewhat out of sorts with me,” Q snorts, and Mycroft quickly adds, “for several good reasons, of course, and they might be disinclined to heed my advice. And even without my involvement, I fear none of them would agree to wait out the storm, as it were.”

“And none of them know that your brother is alive.”

“No. They also believe me to be the only living relative...” He tilts his head and raises an eyebrow.

M understands and smiles, amused. “You think a surprise brother will shock them into compliance?” he asks, quietly, only loud enough for Mycroft to hear.

“It’s worth a shot and better than the alternatives. Doctor Watson in particular might need the extra incentive. Detective Inspector Lestrade will of course obey a direct order, and Doctor Watson’s landlady will, I believe, listen to his advice.”

M nods. “Worth a shot, then, yes.” He straightens and motions Mycroft to follow him out. “I trust you will find your way out. I have some spin doctoring to get underway. We wouldn’t want your brother to be crucified upon his return, would we?”

Mycroft follows him out. “Of course. You will find the necessary information to prove my brother’s innocence in the files I have provided. I trust you will wait with having it published until the threat is eliminated?”

“Of course.

 

The moment they’re out of earshot, Bond kisses Q’s cheek. “Your brother freaks me the fuck out.”

Q’s lips quirk. “Not just you...” 

“He called me James and told me to call him Mycroft.” He says that like the concept of first names has been designed solely to insult him.

Q laughs, then sighs. “This will probably take until morning.” He leaves off the screen for long enough to look at James. Really look at him for the first time since he entered Q-Branch, earlier. Unlike Sherlock, he’s not in some sort of personal war with Mycroft and all he stands for, but Mycroft still holds an inescapable presence; a presence that makes the youngest brother want to impress and rebel at the same time. Standing tall in his own department, in a position that he managed to gain out of his own power, his own intellect, his own work and without any help from a brother who may or may not be the government, did both.

Now that Q is in his element again with the one person to whom he has nothing to prove and against whom he has no reason to rebel, he relaxes.

Bond smiles benignly. “Shouldn’t you be finding your stray brother?”

Behind them, the two programmers manning the night shift silently wander in. Q ignores them for a moment longer, kisses James slowly, chastely.  
“Could you maybe get me a cup of tea, please?” he asks, making Bond grin. “And then get some rest. From the looks of things, you’ll be off, come morning.”

Bond leans in for another kiss. “It sounded like M will want you to get Sherlock’s partner and possibly the other two targets.”

“Doctor Watson.”

Bond nods. “He might be the most difficult to convince that he needs protection.”

Q gives him a curious smile. “You know him.” It’s not a question.

“I only met him once and in passing, I’m afraid. He must be quite the personality to keep a Holmes on his toes.”

Q laughs and kisses James, one more time. “He must be.” He smirks. “Tea, James.”

Bond, for once, complies without complaint. “Yes, Quartermaster.”

* * *

Sometime mid-morning, Greg Lestrade is on the phone when there’s a knock at his door and one of his detectives waves a young woman inside and mouths _’home office'._ Lestrade gestures her to come in and finishes the call.

“Yes. What can I do for you?” he asks, standing and holding out his hand.

She leans forward to shake the hand and puts a smart phone on the desk. “Eve Moneypenny. I’m afraid the thing about the home office was a lie.” She opens an application on the phone. “I’m from MI6.” With that, she turns and locks the door. “You might want to press play.”

Lestrade briefly wonders if it’s because of his own calm centre or the vague memory of having all-controlling government types hovering for too long that he merely does as she asks and doesn’t just pull his gun on the woman (though he is very aware of its weight against his side).  
He also knows the government types. They either walk into his territory because they want to take over… or…  
He presses play and a voice recording comes to life.

_”Let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don’t.”_

Lestrade falls back into his seat.

*

A similar knock sounds on the wooden door of 221 B Baker Street. And, as it has been the case at New Scotland Yard, the visitor doesn’t wait to be invited in.

John Watson looks up from the medical journal he’s reading at the small table-slash-desk in the living room, expecting Mrs Hudson. Instead, he faces a young man and startles for a second. A long, terrifying second in which he almost feels as if he’s seen a ghost out of the corner of his eye.

At least the intruder doesn’t look like a physical threat, and he appears to be unarmed. He is also clearly hesitant.

“Yes?” John asks.

“Doctor Watson?”

John straightens in his seat and puts an elbow on the back of his chair, but he doesn’t stand. “Yes.”

“Desmond Holmes.” Good god, the name feels strange on his tongue. “MI6.”

John’s hesitant but open and curious eyes turn cold in an instant. “Is that so.” After the name, he is clearly disinclined to believe a word that comes out of the stranger’s mouth. MI6 doesn’t really help…

Q smiles and takes something out of his coat pocket, putting it on the table in front of Watson. He is immediately glad that he insisted on being given the original phone and not just the recording. John Watson isn’t with the police, and he isn’t an agent. He was – is – Sherlock’s closest and dearest friend and will need more than just the voice for proof.

John stands so quickly, his chair is toppling backwards. That… kid… with his name, his mop of hair, the dark coat, the blue eyes radiating in a myriad of shades, the slender frame, the pronounced cheekbones… has Sherlock’s phone.

Q didn’t think it possible, but once the doctor speaks, his voice is even colder than his eyes.

“Who sent you?”

“I suppose I could show you my ID, but we both know how much they’re worth, don’t we?”

John’s lip actually twitches, though the smile is a steely one.

“There’s a recording on that phone, Doctor Watson. In time, sometime soon, it will publicly prove that my… brother was not a fraud.”

John licks his lips and clenches his fists. His brain is giving him wildly contradictory impulses, and he doesn’t know which to follow.  
“Sherlock only had one brother. Who the hell are you?”

“Mycroft would have come himself, but he feels that he is not welcome.”

“Damn right, he’s not!” John bursts out before he can stop himself.

Q grins. “He does occasionally spark that reaction in people.”

John rubs his forehead. “Sherlock never mentioned a second brother.” It’s a statement. A small, safe haven in between the questions.

Q knows how to reply to that one. “He never would have mentioned Mycroft, either…”

John half-grins, again. “True,” he says, the soldier straightening his back. “You said there was a recording?” He schools his features and gets ready to assemble the necessary information so that he can kick whoever the hell that kid is down the stairs. There is just no way any of this is true. It’s… too much. Too much.  
Q gestures him to see for himself, and John navigates the phone easily, still remembering its specifications. But when he sees the date of the latest recording, he hesitates and licks his lips again.  
“If this is a joke, a trick or… I don’t even know… You should know that my sense of humour was already fucked when Sherlock was still here, and it’s non-existent, now.”

“I am familiar with Sherlock’s sense of humour.”

John wants to take the phone and shove it down the kid’s throat, but he presses play instead.

_”Let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don’t.” – “John.” – “Not just John. Everyone.” – “Mrs Hudson.” – “Everyone.” – “Lestrade.” – “Three bullets, tree gunmen, three victims. There’s no stopping them, now.”_

The recording stops, and only then does John notice that he’s sitting down, his vision blurred, and the chair back in an upright position.  
The kid – Holmes? – has stopped it and is now laying a hand on John’s shoulder.

“Doctor?” Q tries to remind himself that he is also talking to a soldier, not just a doctor. Still, perhaps he should have brought him into MI6 first. Then again, what is the right way to tell someone that the person most important to them isn’t actually dead?

“He…” John swallows. “He… killed himself… for us. Me.” His eyes search his guest’s.

Q sits. “Doctor Watson… let me assure you that if there had been no way to make everyone believe that he was dead in order to save you, my brother… _would have done it_.”

John’s eyes widen and his breath catches… and he isn’t sure he can still hear even his own thoughts over the roaring in his ears that is sending a million questions through him, but for some reason, the first thing that he voices is… “Desmond, you said?”

Q smiles. “Call me Q.”

 


	2. On-Site

“Right. Right...” John rubs his face, tries several times to put his thoughts into words and fails most of those times, until he visibly shakes himself, rubs his sweaty hands on his thighs, gives another try, aborts it as another thought interrupts the first one and blurts out, “Is... is it even safe to speak, here?”

Q gives him a small smile. “Perfectly.”

The self-assuredness of someone who knows that they are the unquestioned best in their field that is shining through the smile makes John freeze again for a second.

“You have questions,” Q says.

John nods, almost frantically and breathes out. “Yes, but first... You haven’t said... not in so many words...”

Q blinks repeatedly and averts his eyes. “Ah. Yes, of course. I apologise.” He looks John straight in the eyes. “Sherlock Holmes is alive.”

And then the tears are there that John has managed to hold in until that moment. He controls his breathing, a fist pressed tightly to his lips. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or bite his hand in the surge of anger/relief/frustration/love/disbelief.

Q leaves him his moment. He’s read the file. He knows that – for whatever reason – Sherlock has staged his demise in front of his friend, had let him touch him, search for his lacking pulse, even. Leaving John with no choice but to believe, eventually, that Sherlock was gone.

John whispers something into his fist. “One more miracle...”

“Sorry?”

John sniffs, resolutely, rubs his eyes and sits up straight. “One more miracle. That’s what I asked of him.”

Q smiles kindly. “He’s always been known to pull the odd miracle out of his deerstalker.” The smile turns mischievous.

It startles a laugh out of John. “God, he hated that thing. Hates. Hates it.” Slowly, his head clears, and he licks his lips.  
“Wait... What’s going on, then? MI6? You said MI6?”

Q nods.

“What’s his secret MI6 brother doing here? With me?” The head clears some more and the urgency is back. “Is he alright? Is something wrong? Where is he?”

Q holds up his hands. “He’s in South America tracking the last of Moriarty’s operatives. We have reason to believe that the target might be turning tables on him...”

“ _What_?!”

Q reaches out with one of his hands, as if ready to lay a calming hand on John’s shoulder, again.  
“... Which is why we sent an agent to help him.”

John still looks ready to bolt and book the first ticket to South America that he can get.

“An acquaintance of yours, I understand?” Q says and hopes to hold John’s attention for long enough to get him into MI6 and not off on a wild goose chase. The last thing he wants is getting John into a situation that Sherlock has done everything he could to prevent.  
“James Bond.”

John blinks. “Commander Bond? Navy?”

Q tilts his head in acknowledgement. “Formerly, yes.”

John huffs, amusement now managing to cut through the still lingering shock. “I remember _him_ , alright.”

This time it’s Q who has a small laugh startled out of him. “I see we are talking about the same person, then,” he says and can’t help but grin.  
Q checks his watch. “How likely are you going to accept the offer of protective custody?”

John doesn’t deign that with an answer.

Q’s lip twitches. “Yes, Mycroft said it might be a problem. And hiding in security couldn’t be in your nature, or you would never have suffered Sherlock.”

John’s shock is lessening by the second, now, and in its stead returns the instinct to jump up, follow and protect _Sherlock_.  
“Look...” he fidgets. “This...” he taps the phone, tentatively, as if it might turn to ash, “... is all well and good. But it’s from... _before_. I need... something. More.”

To John’s utmost surprise, Q merely nods. “Yes, of course. If you could just convince your landlady that it would be best for her to accompany the agents downstairs to a secure location, we can get going.”

John blinks.

“We’re not sure yet if it will be necessary to bring in Detective Inspector Lestrade, but at least he was more inclined to follow orders.” He smirks slightly. “Much more inclined than you yourself, Doctor. Somewhat surprising given your military past, but perhaps not so surprising considering your past with my brother.”  
Q stands. “Shall we?”

John stands, automatically. “Where to?”

Q takes out an ID from an inside pocket of his coat and hands it to John. “MI6.”

John takes the visitor’s pass and smiles, ruefully. “Mycroft?”

Q huffs. “Yes. Though I was asked for input, as well, I doubt that any protestations would have done any good against Mycroft’s standing word.”

John grins at the petulantly rolled eyes that managed to override Q’s professionalism. The smile quickly wanes.  
“And will I be able to see Sherlock? Talk to him?”

“Depending on how the operation goes, you should at the very least be able to hear him once Bond’s established a safe contact. I will try to provide a visual, but such things can never be guaranteed.”  
He holds out a hand, gesturing John to follow him outside.

“You’re from technical services, then?” John asks as he puts on his jacket.

Q smiles slightly. “I run the department.”

This time, it’s John who huffs. “Of course you do.” As if a Holmes could ever strive for anything less than everything.

*

_“Sherlock is, without a doubt, the most intelligent person you’ll ever meet. Keep that in mind, 007.”_

Q’s words still ring in Bond’s head, but he’s nevertheless not sure what to expect. He’s met his fair share of geniuses – Q only being one of them – but the words he was told were so full of conviction that he thinks it’s better to expect the unexpected.

So, how exactly does one stage a meeting with such a person? Especially, since Holmes’ paranoia has probably multiplied in the year he’s been on the chase. Never mind that there is still no tangible trace of Moran, and Holmes could only be located because the one doing the locating is one of the top five (Bond assumes three) hackers of the world and knows his brother well enough to know how he thinks.

He exits Santiago airport and enters the Chilean February summer. The sun is about to set, so he has his suitcase sent to his hotel (though he has the unpleasant feeling that he won’t be seeing much of the hotel), rents a car and heads in the direction Q has given him. Namely, where money is needed and information is money, he is following the sunset westwards.

It’s after dark when the houses he passes become partially government funded and largely improvised. He’s not meeting a specific contact (he has considered doing that, but he neither wants Holmes to disappear on him nor Moran to find either of them too soon), but he does know where one might head for, say, _'directions'_.  
Holmes is supposedly still in the area doing the same (and for all Bond knows, so is Moran), provided he’s not moved on, yet, somehow managing to slip through Q’s nets.

 

Bond’s Chilean Spanish is merely passable, but it’s not like he could have blended in as a native, so it hardly matters. And in his experience, blending in is mostly a matter of attitude and not of language.

His first four tries don’t bring him any closer to finding out about a foreigner who is trying to find yet another foreigner, and he knows damn well that with every one of them, he runs risk of speaking to an already paid informant. He does know how and where to look, however, since, the last time he visited, he’d been in the company of a local informant who introduced him to the peculiarities of Santiago.

He eventually speaks to the owner of a (sort of) club, who, with enough monetary incentive, sends him into the back – past the boiling, handmade brewery – to meet the owner’s drug-dealing cousin who might have heard something from one of his gofers and might even remember which one with yet more monetary incentive.

After that, he’s out on foot with the car left behind (he’s not betting on it still being there when he returns, but he has little choice but navigating between the huts without it) when he finds the aforementioned gofer with a body language that is expecting questions before they are asked.

Doesn’t look like the night is a loss, then.

It turns out that barely adult and addicted drug-dealers don’t require much bribe to rat out whoever had paid them to not do that. Though he may have insinuated that he didn’t pay for his newly found informant to betray anyone; he merely wants a meeting with the nameless foreigner. Hardly something to discover morals over.

Bond returns the boy’s grin (at putting the money in his pocket) and watches him disappear between houses.

He has no intention of actually waiting for that supposed meeting to take place. He merely waits long enough for the boy to be out of sight and know what direction he’s headed in. Then he’s after him.

... And then he learns what Q meant with Sherlock being intelligent.

He never sees him coming.

 

Bond stands in a makeshift warehouse for various car parts and stares down a gun – not his own, mind... that one is in his attacker’s other hand – and despite his instincts, he’s not entirely sure how the other man managed to sneak up on him and disarm him without him noticing.  
He thinks he could probably take him, armed or not, but he is not facing a target and has to force every muscle in his body out of the fighting mode. Not entirely, of course; he’s only going to put his life in the hands of one Holmes, and this one isn’t it.

“Who are you?”

Impressive voice, Bond has to give him that. He slowly raises his hands, signalling his cooperation.  
“I’m sure you have a fair idea, or I’d already be dead.”

Holmes puts Bond’s gun into the back of his trousers and then holds his own steadily with both hands.

“What are you doing here, then, agent?”

Bond can’t help it, he has to grin. He does appreciate competence. It saves time.

“Moran knows about you.”

Holmes is less than impressed. “I would assume so.”

“And he’s fallen off the grid.”

Something like a light comes to Holmes’ eyes. “Off _whose_ grid, exactly?” He lowers his gun.

“Both your brothers’.”

Holmes blinks, once, then stows away his gun in its holster, taking out Bond’s and weighing it in his hand. He completely ignores Bond for a second and smirks at the gun.  
“MI6, then. I wasn’t entirely certain.” Without further ado, he takes hold of the muzzle and hands the gun back to its owner.

Bond takes it, but doesn’t put it away. “For someone who went to the troubles you did to protect others from the fallout of Moriarty, you don’t seem to care much about the fact that the last of his rats knows about you and could be on his way back to England to finish the job.”

Holmes straightens. “He wouldn’t risk that before he knows I am out of the way. If he even knows who is after him.”

“According to both your brothers, he has been chasing you for two weeks.” Holmes’ eyes narrow. “If he realises who you are and considers you a threat to his mission, he’ll ignore you for long enough to complete it. He is still a soldier.”

“ _Rogue_ soldier,” Holmes corrects.

“Is he? Or did he just start taking orders from someone else?” Holmes hesitates, and Bond smiles, sardonically. “Tell me, Holmes, do you happen to know any soldiers who transferred their military loyalty to another whom they would follow into death without question?”

“I think they would rather avoid death if possible,” he sounds more certain than he looks.

Bond, of course, can read the dawning comprehension in Holmes’ expression clearly. “I think that would be you, not them.” He puts away his gun, standing firm. “John Watson would have jumped with and for you with no hesitation.”

Holmes looks thunderous. “Are you comparing John to that vulture?”

“Merely pointing out that certain similarities are a possibility.”

“Where is John?” His hardened tone implies that Bond had better have a satisfactory answer to that question.

“Safely at MI6. Martha Hudson and Greg Lestrade are in two separate, secure locations, Lestrade ready to be called in if necessary to… offer insight on your methods. If push came to shove, I wouldn’t bet money on the security of any of those locations. I prefer to take out the threat, first.”

Holmes hesitates. It’s an interesting look on him. “John knows.”

Bond smirks. “If you get out of this alive, he’ll probably kill you.”

“But he is well?”

“Much better, now, I imagine.” He raises an eyebrow to make clear that John being unwell is Holmes’ bloody fault, and if it had been Bond in John’s stead, he would have punched Holmes’ bloody lights out. “I haven’t spoken to him; he’s with Q. Desmond.”

Holmes marginally relaxes.

“And waiting for our communication,” Bond adds.

“Moran comes first.”

Bond nods. “Agreed. You know where he is?”

Holmes hesitates again, but this time, it looks more like he’s attempting to think of the perfect way to ditch Bond. But while he might be a master manipulator, Bond is at least as adept at reading people as Holmes is in his own way…

“If you’re half as intelligent as Q seems to think, you’ll stick to me, Holmes. We tracked you, not Moran. Moran’s location could only be narrowed down once we had yours. He’ll find you, sooner or later.”

“My… brothers agree with your being here, then?”

Bond huffs. “I don’t give a fuck about Mycroft, but I’d jump for Q. And, yes, they do.”

Holmes’ eyes twitch, and he smirks slowly. “I see,” he says. “ _Q_ … has made a _friend_ , has he?” The insinuation on the emphasis of the word _’friend’_ could fill several pornographic novels, Bond is sure.

Bond just stares Holmes down. He has nothing to be ashamed of. He, on the contrary, takes pride in his relationship. In still being capable of such emotion and in being considered worthy of the affections of an extraordinary man like Q.

Holmes chuckles. “I bet Mycroft was overjoyed.”

“Ecstatic. Moran?”

“Yes,” Holmes agrees, almost enthusiastically. “That is quite enough dawdling.” He walks past Bond, trusting him to follow. “You brought a car. Where is it?”

Bond almost rolls his eyes. “Perhaps you should let me take the lead, if you haven’t deduced it, Holmes.” Though, so he notices, Holmes does head in the right direction.

“Sherlock, please.” He smirks over his shoulder, _still_ going in the right direction, the bastard. “Since we’re practically family.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm, perhaps too much to hide the fact that he is… very secretly pleased.

“James,” Bond offers in return, for some reason not feeling quite as violated for having his first name handed over to yet another Holmes as he did with Mycroft.

 

To Bond’s everlasting surprise, his car is still there. They get in, but Bond doesn’t start the engine right away and instead takes something out of his pocket (something he definitely wasn’t going to leave in the car), puts one of the two into his hear and holds the other out to Sherlock.  
“Take it.”

Sherlock eyes it, while loading a map on his phone, one-handed.

“Now, Sherlock. We’re not doing this on our own.”

Sherlock considers James more than the ear-piece and finally takes it, nodding at the screen of his phone, absently, the map pointing them eastwards.  
“Interesting. You don’t seem the type to rely on others. Did my brother instil that new trait in you?”

Bond grins and starts the engine. “Q?”

_“Here, James.”_

*

_“Interesting. You don’t seem the type to rely on others. Did my brother instil that new trait in you?”_

John hears the device come alive and the voice with it, and he is very glad that he is already sitting down.

_“Q?”_

Then John’s relief vanishes instantaneously, and he hates sitting down as much as he liked it a second ago and stands abruptly. What now? What now? What now?

“Here, James.”

John’s head bursts with things he wants to say, things he’s spent hours to put into an order that would make sense. So many things that needed saying. And, now, none of them are within his grasp, anymore.

_“We’re heading east. Got anything for me?”_

Q triangulates their position and soon finds the phone that is not James’. He easily projects the map on it onto one of his screens.  
“Not yet. I’m on it.”  
He looks to the side, laying a hand on John’s arm that is as tense as the rest of the man and nods towards the microphone, smiling encouragingly (or perhaps curiously... he can’t deny that he’s dying to hear his brother interact with the man he jumped for).

John tries to take a deep breath, but his throat chokes on it and the name tumbles out with something that only barely avoids sounding like a sob.  
“Sherlock?”

 _“John,”_ a rush of breath more than words, but comprehensible, nonetheless. _“Are you... alright?”_ Apprehensive, hesitant.

John swallows hard and stands ramrod straight, recalling every ounce of soldier he still has in him.  
“No,” he forces out. “No, I’m not alright. I would say that I’ve never been less alright, but that would be a lie.”

For a long time, it’s quiet, only the engine is audibly purring; Bond is tactfully keeping silent.

Finally, _“I’m sorry.”_

John’s jaw sets. “That is not nearly enough, Sh-Sherlock.” He releases a shuddering breath, the name much harder to say in a conversation than he anticipated. “But we can figure out what _is_ when you’re home safe.”

Now, Bond pipes in. _“I’ll make sure of that, Captain.”_

John manages to smile slightly and can finally sit down, again. At least Sherlock is not alone. He’s been alone too long before John, and now another year that was spent in unnecessary solitude. Sherlock is not meant to be alone. He needs someone to hold him back only just enough to keep him from melting his wings in the sun’s heat, while letting him soar at the same time. Sherlock is not an island, despite his efforts to keep everyone at bay. He is... Sherlock. And he has friends.

Bond might just be efficient and detached enough to fulfil the needed role for the time being...

“Good to have you on-site, Commander Bond,” John says, honestly grateful.

_“My pleasure.”_

 


	3. Points of Entry

And then, the unthinkable is said.

 _“I’d rather have John.”_ Sherlock sounds downright petulant and so painfully familiar, John is tearing up again (though no tears fall), and he’s smiling, already halfway to forgiveness, damn the inescapable man. 

_“No offence,”_ Sherlock adds, clearly to Bond.

_“None taken. You’re not my preferred Holmes, either.”_

_“Clearly.”_

John and Q share a look, Q grinning widely, John shaking his head.

But Sherlock doesn’t seem to be done with the surprises.  
 _“Q?”_

Q blinks. “Yes?”

There is a pause. _“Thank you.”_

The soft and honest words make John freeze, and it only confirms what he’s been thinking earlier. Sherlock is not meant to be alone. Sherlock’s natural reaction to gratitude is that it is a waste of time that is better used for solving the next case. A sentiment that John can theoretically relate to, though he is a firm believer that it’s possible to make the little bit of time necessary to say _'thank you'_. (Or, well, that’s what Sherlock has John for. Sherlock can go on, and John can deal with the niceties.)

Q’s reaction is not one of introspection and definitely not a quiet one.  
“You’re a bloody idiot, Sherlock!”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, and John can almost see the chastised look behind the silence (but perhaps that is his imagination that is desperately trying to fill in for the lack of a visual).

“You never did know how to ask for help, but this is really pushing it!” Q continues. “I suppose I should be thankful that you at least accepted Mycroft’s intel and his assistance with your moronic _’showdown’_ on that stupid roof, but then dropping off the radar? When you definitely have all the contacts you could possibly need? It’s not just about you, anymore, Sherlock!”

 _“Who is it about, then?”_ Sherlock finally sounds angry. _“You?”_

“No, Sherlock. _I_ know how to find you if I need to. _I_ understand the ins and outs of your brain to know when you’re fooling people. _I_ didn’t _mourn_ you!”

_“I did everything I did to **protect** John. I already got to the snipers on Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Moran was for John alone. I realised that my communication could be traced, and I wouldn’t risk that. **God** only knows what your intervention shook loose.”_

Q’s jaw sets, and his eyes narrow. “Nothing that hasn’t already been shaken, let me assure you.”

Bond’s dry voice interrupts the siblings’ spat. _“You know that Moran noticed that he was being followed,”_ he tells Sherlock. _“And he has probably by now realised that someone has been taking out Moriarty’s network. How likely do you think it is that he hasn’t figured out who you are?”_

John fidgets in his seat. He can see the dot on one of the screens that follows the movements of Bond’s car, while on the other ones Q is scanning transmissions and surveillance videos in the east of the city.  
He feels useless. And he doesn’t know if Q noticed his fidgeting, or if it is a mere coincidence…

“Doctor Watson? John?” he corrects himself when he remembers that John has offered his first name. He enlarges a satellite image of a factory compound with several armed guards circling he main building. It’s hardly the only compound with security, but this one stands out in numbers.  
“What do you think?”

John analyses the walking patterns of the guards who secure the area and frowns. “Well, they’re _dressed_ like a cheap private security company and not military…”

Q sighs. “Yes, I feared as much.”

“But they don’t move like it,” John adds.

Q perks up.

“Military trained…” John’s eyes light up and peek at Q. “Or possibly led by someone who is.”

Q grins. “James, I’m sending you a location.”

_“Got it. Thank you.”_

Q calls up more information about the factory. “Olmos. Call in Tanner.” It’s still early, but this clearly requires input from higher up…

“Yes, sir.”

Q scans the readings. “Anything you’d like to tell me about what Moran is up to in Chile, Sherlock?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, he sounds decidedly smarmy. _“'Import and export'. I cut him off of some of his… suppliers to lure him out. It seems that he needs to depend on his own business and can no longer sustain himself on Moriarty’s legacy.”_

Q’s eyes narrow. “You cut the military lunatic off his funds,” he says, dead-pan.

Bond seems to be of one mind with Sherlock on this one.  
 _“Easiest way to lure someone out.”_

Q rolls his eyes. “Yes, thank you, 007. I am aware of your methods. Unlike you, however, my brother is not a trained assassin, no matter how accurate his aim appears to have been until now, and he should operate according to his strengths and not against them.”

 _“I am aware of Moran’s file,”_ Sherlock defends himself. _“I still thought it the most efficient course of action, since it kept Moran busy in Chile for long enough for me to catch up with him.”_

“Or for him to wait for you,” John pipes up.

 _“Won’t matter,”_ is Bond’s opinion. _“We needed to get close, we’re getting close.”_ He sounds sure of himself. Then again, it’s Bond, and he always does. _“Does the security look like they’re expecting someone, Captain?”_

Q personally thought that the number of guards might simply be someone’s paranoia acting up, but…

“If I had to guess, I’d say so. This seems rather expensive for a permanent arrangement.”

Q turns to look at him. Good point. Especially if Moran has recently started to run out of money.  
“Perhaps you could extrapolate the ideal point of entry?”

John huffs. “One that doesn’t look like a trap, you mean?” He points at a weak spot on the fenced-in area. “Then again, it could also be as obvious as it is to make a potential threat walk into a different trap.” His hands wave over the controls. “How do I…?” He wants to change the angles of the images.

Q, assuming correctly that John would have issues with the commands on his keyboard, hands him a touchscreen that is linked to the controls.

“Thank you.”

 _“Are you letting John handle your electronics?”_ Sherlock wants to know. _“I wouldn’t recommend it.”_

John is already back in the mind-set required to deal with Sherlock and doesn’t even blink, while his fingers more or less effortlessly move over the screen in his hands. “Shut up, Sherlock.”

Behind them, Tanner walks in, looking vaguely scrubby and tousled, but still properly dressed.  
“What’s going on? Has Bond made contact?”

Q lets John deal with analysing the compound and has begun scanning every input he can get on Moran, just in case the man’s managed to appear elsewhere. His eyes never leave the screen as he answers.  
“Bond has found Holmes. They’re following a potential lead to Moran, now.” He gestures to his side where John stands, tablet in hand. “This is Captain Watson.” He consciously uses his military title and not his medical one. “He’s Holmes’ partner. John, this is Bill Tanner.”

Tanner visibly lights up. “Ah, yes. I used to check your blog.” He smiles and holds out a hand for John to take. “Glad to see you’re back in the game. It must have been hard to lie low while your partner was out there.”

John’s face hardens, but he manages to keep up the smile. “I didn’t know Sherlock was alive until yesterday morning.”

Tanner blinks, startled. “I had assumed…” It’s clear that he’s known about the vanished detective, along with others at MI6, and that he never even considered the possibility that John wouldn’t know as well… and looks uncomfortably chastised. He changes his train of thought. “You must be relieved,” he says instead of what has been going through his head.

John nods. “Of course, yes. Though I’m not really sure what else to feel, right now.”

 _“I said I was sorry,”_ Sherlock complains into the silence.

John rolls his eyes.

Tanner grins slightly. “Bond has the tendency to play dead every now and again…” he offers.

 _“I only did that once,”_ Bond pipes up, on the defence as much as Sherlock. _“I didn’t have anyone to miss me, and the time after that I was only MIA, not declared dead, and I came back the moment I could. I’m a secret agent, not a detective with a partner.”_

 _“If you ever ‘disappear’ on Q…”_ Sherlock has quite the threatening voice when he puts his mind to it.

 _“You’ll kill me.”_ Bond finishes, sounding bored.

Sherlock huffs. _“Oh, no. I’ll leave you to Mycroft. He’s not quite as intelligent as I am, but, unlike me, he has the patience to carry out everything he can come up with.”_

John blinks. Sherlock is not cruel – even though that exchange sounds eerily like the one Sherlock had with Moriarty at the pool – and can be fiercely protective, as John has seen where he or Mrs Hudson are concerned… but that he would use Mycroft as a threat…  
John grins and looks at Q.  
“I’ve never known Sherlock to be so protective of family…”

Q turns his head to look at John, ignoring the screens for a moment.  
“Oh? I have…” The look in his eyes and the tone of his voice make it unmistakeable that he is not talking about the Holmes family.  
He returns to the screens.

John remains frozen for a long moment, waits for a quip from Sherlock or even Bond… then he licks his lips absently, smiles at the involuntary warmth that is spreading through him and then determinedly focuses on the tablet.

Tanner looks from one to the other, takes in the suspicious radio silence and finally clears his throat.  
“I’m calling in M.”

 

M walks into Q-Branch only minutes before seven in the morning.  
“What’s the situation?” he asks.

Q briefly looks up from where he’s been working his surveillance, but it’s Tanner – who is at one of the smaller monitors to the side with two of Q’s programmers – who straightens, walks over to M and answers the question.

“Good morning, sir. Bond and Holmes are about to enter the compound where we assume Moran is hiding or at least must have left some trails.” He nods sideways to where John is talking to the two men in the field about the point of entrance.  
“That’s Captain Watson, Doctor Watson,” it sounds both like a correction and an addition, “Holmes’ partner.”

M nods. “I know his file and looked through the cases he’s written down, yesterday.”

“He was at hand, and Bond and Holmes both listen to his input...” he pauses and shares a grin with Q who looks up at that, “... which is somewhat hard to accomplish.”

M’s lip briefly quirks. Then he notices that there still is one of their own analysts next to John, keeping an eye on everything.

Tanner nods and lowers his voice. “Kinsinger came in half an hour ago. They’re going to go for the easiest point of entry.”

“They’re expected?”

“Both Kinsinger and Watson think it’s likely, but they still agree that the weak spot in the security is safer than going for a less obvious option.”

Q interrupts them. “Five minutes. 007?”

M and Tanner turn towards Q and the main screens, John stands and lays down the tablet, Kinsinger next to him appears anxious but is obviously not nearly as involved as either John or Q.

 _“About to enter the area,”_ Bond confirms.

“Good,” Q calmly replies, his hands resting on the keyboard, ready to jump in on the action if needed. “We’ll be right here, and...” And then the action comes to his fingers sooner than he expected, his eyes widening and darting from one screen to the other. “James?”

John perks up. “What? Sherlock?” There is no answer.

“Shit!” Q swears, grabbing another keyboard and typing furiously. “There’s an interfering transmitter. I lost them. _Shit_!” He waves a programmer to his station, takes over one of the smaller stations to his left and swears some more after a moment.  
“We’re out of satellite reach for another fifteen minutes.”

John moves back and forth mostly on the spot, doesn’t want to look at the empty screen but unable to look away for long. They _were_ expected. It _was_ a trap. And there really was no longer a question about that.

M doesn’t even ask if there is any CCTV. He’s seen the area. “Do we have people close by?” he asks, instead.

Q is staring grimly at the screen in front of him. “Tanner,” is all he says, typing furiously.

Tanner turns towards M. “There isn’t anyone within reach. It would take 003 about five hours to get on-site.”

M nods. “Send him in.”

Q, again, doesn’t even blink. “Olmos.”

“Yes, sir.”

John runs his hands over his hair and clasps his hands in the back of his neck and tilts his head back.  
“So, that’s it?” he demands, letting his arms fall to his sides. “We’re just... accepting that they’re walking into a trap and will probably be killed within minutes?” He stares directly at M, knowing exactly who he is, but not caring about his position in the least.

M stands firm. “Bond is not an amateur. He’s been in such situations, before.”

“It’s a trap!” John all but yells, before he forces himself to at least calm down on the outside. It wouldn’t do to be kicked out. At all. He closes his eyes, purses his lips and clears his throat. “Sorry.”

“Captain,” M says, taking a step closer. “We merely lost communication. I know that the past two days must have been draining for you, but this is not an unusual occurrence. Not for Mister Holmes, as I understand, and I can guarantee you that it is not unusual for 007, either.”

John licks his lips and after a long moment nods decisively.

“I found someone in the area,” Q interrupts them.

John perks up, hopeful, and M just frowns.

“Didn’t you say there wasn’t anyone?” M asks, sounding curious and pre-emptively impressed.

Q smirks. “Not one of ours. Someone who owes me a favour.”

*

Bond frowns, touching his ear. “Q?”

Sherlock leans back in his seat and looks out of the window. “Did we just lose communication, James?”

“They’re expecting us.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock just says. “We’re going in, regardless.”

“Obviously,” Bond immediately returns, though with a much clearer inflection. “You wanted to lure him out. Well, he’s lured out.”

Sherlock blinks when Bond doesn’t take the agreed upon direction and smirks.  
“You’re taking a different point of entry?”

“I thought, since we’re walking into a trap, we might as well make it harder for them.”

Sherlock’s smirk grows. 

“Let’s try to get back in one piece,” Bond adds and stops the car close to the fence surrounding the factory building.

For a moment, they stare ahead, watching the shadows of guards they can make out.

Sherlock speaks into the quiet. “Does it add to efficiency, or is it distracting? Having someone to return to?”

Bond looks ahead for a moment longer, then smirks and looks at Sherlock.

Sherlock blinks and turns his head to return the look. Then he returns the smirk.

“Ready?” Bond asks.

“When you are.”

Bond exits the car, walks around it to the trunk and opens it.

Sherlock comes to stand next to him. “You left those weapons in the car while looking for me?” He raises an eyebrow.

“You didn’t leave me with much of a choice.” Bond takes out the two small rifles and hands one to Sherlock. “You can handle this?”

Sherlock looks as uncomfortable as he ever looks (which isn’t much), but holds it, securely. “I’ve recently had to resort to a similar model. I’m not fond of firearms. That is... John’s specialty.”

Bond slings the weapon onto his back, using its belt and takes out a wire cutter next, before closing the trunk.  
“If you’re anything like your brother, and I believe it’s safe to assume that you are, you’ll be able to handle this.”  
He jogs to the fence.

Sherlock narrows his eyes and follows him. “Q invents guns. He doesn’t fire them,” he says, accusingly, as if already knowing that he will not like what Bond has to say about Q’s gun usage.

Bond starts cutting the netting wire. “There was a kidnapping attempt,” he says, neutrally.

“ _What_?” Sherlock hisses.

Bond pauses briefly and looks at Sherlock. “Your brother took out four armed paramilitary contractors. Killed three, wounded the fourth.” He sounds proud, even though the thought of how close he came to losing Q still sends a shudder through him.

Sherlock’s suspicious look turns thunderous. “And where were _you_?”

Bond is back to cutting the wire. “MIA, on my way back.”

“He was distraught,” Sherlock realises.

“Yes,” Bond has to force the word out. “I’d trained with him, in case a kidnapping were ever to happen.” He stands and throws the wire cutter to the floor, bending the fence so that they would fit through the hole. Before he slips through, however, he looks directly into Sherlock’s eyes.  
“Q is the most amazing man I have ever met, and I would do absolutely anything for him. Including coming home.” With that, he slips through the fence and Sherlock follows.

There is a lot of large equipment on the factory grounds, obstructing the view. One the one hand, that makes it easier to sneak closer, on the other hand, if they are discovered, they wouldn’t know that until they’re staring at more guns than they can take out.

They hide behind a rusty digger, and Bond takes the rifle off his back and into his hands.

“If we start shooting, we’re handing over our only advantage,” Sherlock says, then tilts his head. “If we ever even had the element of surprise on our side, that is.”

“We didn’t. Our communication is purposefully being jammed. Q doesn’t just lose a signal, it was taken.” He peeks around the digger and nods towards the two guards he can see.  
“I’m taking those two out. You get to those barrels, covering that angle so I can check the guards for keys or cards once they’re down.”

Sherlock nods. “Done.” He keeps his head down and walks until he can hide behind the digger’s shovel, then he waits for Bond to open fire. He runs the second it starts, keeping his eyes firmly on the barrels and not on the potential threats around him.  
Bond is not John, but he’ll do. Sherlock is just going to have to trust the man to do his job.

The shooting stops just as he reaches the barrels, and already he can hear shouting from the other side of the building. He aims his rifle at the corner where some of the voices rapidly come closer. He’s close enough to the men who come running that his aim is sufficient to take out three people who only see Bond crouching over two dead guards.

He forces down his innate revulsion at the weapon in his hand, thinking of how Desmond has managed to overcome his reaction as well in a time of need. Then he runs towards Bond.

“Anything?” Sherlock asks.

Bond huffs, frustrated. “No,” he says, relieving the dead men of their guns, handing one to Sherlock. “Keep that. We’re just going to have to shoot our way in.” He looks behind them as more voices and stomping feet audibly come closer. “They know we’re coming, anyway.”

They head for the nearest door, and Bond shoots the lock before kicking it in. (In the door’s defence, it does take two attempts.) Then they stand in a corridor, and Bond feels like he has to check that his companion isn’t compromised.

“How are you holding up?” he asks.

Sherlock isn’t deluding himself enough to make himself think that the killing of guards is in any way comparable to specifically taking out single targets that have been holding up Moriarty’s network. The encounter outside was mindless shooting, just firing in order to try and not get shot instead. The rifle in his hands feels heavy and dirty and worthless, yet he’s clutching it, ready to fire, again.  
“I need to go home,” is what he says, in lieu of actually answering the question.

Bond nods, curtly. “You’re the genius. Where are we headed?”

Sherlock scans the corridor, openings and doors. “We need an office,” he says running ahead.

Bond wordlessly follows. In his experience, a busy genius is a focused genius.

They’re around the corner when they can hear the guards enter the door where they’d forced their way in.

Sherlock doesn’t give any instructions; he merely glances at the doors, the workers with pushcarts they pass, some man with a lab coat... They get nervous looks, but, apparently, armed personnel is not an unusual sight, so nobody attempts to stop them.

When finally they burst through a double door and stand in a large storeroom with two cranes moving crates, Sherlock freezes in place.

Ahead of them – next to where a truck is being loaded by the main entrance – is the office that Sherlock has been looking for. Sherlock stares through the window and the glass door, takes one glance at whatever it is that he can see in such a short amount of time... and...

“He’s not here.”

“What?”

Sherlock doesn’t elaborate, he just follows the line of sight of something he can see inside the office and stares at the far corner of the high ceiling.

And that is when the explosions start.

 


	4. Contacts and Connections

John stares at the screen in the unnatural silence amidst the running computers and the deafening visual. A fourth explosion rocks the building they’re watching, and, this time, one wall caves and crumbles.

John’s vision darkens, and only then does he realise that he hasn’t been breathing. He gasps and can now hear that there has been sound around him all along. Bustling, running, typing, people barking orders and others answering. And among that…

“ _John_!”

John startles at the firm hands on his shoulders and stares into Q’s eyes right in front of his. Once there is recognition in his own, Q pushes him to the side.

“I need this computer,” Q just says, hurriedly, already typing furiously. “This is a… personalised program.”

John notices M standing on Q’s other side, his eyes darting to the devastating screen, again.

“Personalised?” M asks.

Q fidgets as much as his busy typing allows. “Bond’s had a bad experience with a biometric implant, and none of the other agents would have let me tag them unless the order came directly from you.”

M doesn’t look like he knows what to make of that. “You tagged Bond without his knowledge.”

Q scowls. “Of course not. I couldn’t have sneaked that past him, and he agreed. With conditions.” He accesses a program on his laptop. “It had to be hidden where it couldn’t easily be removed, and I was to be the only one who has access to it.” He releases a shuddering breath when he receives the signal.  
“Bond is alive. We are going to assume that my brother is with him,” he states, not allowing protest – be that from people or the universe at large.

M is impressed, but his thoughts are already covering a different angle. “Why is this signal working but the communicators are down?”

“We’re working on the communicators,” Q bites out, sounding annoyed at himself. “They were active when the connection was broken. The tracker is different. It needs to be activated from here.” He relays the signal of Bond’s scanner to one of the main screens, showing an elevated but normal heart rate, and moves on to the next task.  
“But, yes, they clearly jammed a specific type of signal, or I couldn’t have got through. Working on it,” he repeated.  
He enters the process of recovering the lost signal from one of his programmers, coding in tandem.

John tries to follow the strings of codes and images and eventually rubs his eyes that are hurting from the strain of trying to see something in the numbers that would ease his worry. He listens to the beep of Bond’s heartbeat and imagines Sherlock’s to beat in time with it, like Q working with his team. One supporting and complementing the other.

“Captain?” M asks. He doesn’t ask if the other man is alright or if he would like to be brought out, but he thinks that engaging him might keep him at the task at hand (even if there is nothing currently for John to do).

John’s lips tighten and he nods, sharply. “After everything I’ve gone through with Sherlock, and everything he must have gone through on his own since, this isn’t going to kill him,” he states, not a speck of doubt entering his voice, no matter how much of it was coursing through his mind. He is going with Q’s assessment here.

M keeps his eyes firmly on the screens but continues: “Bond disappeared once after an explosion, before he had that… implant. He remained MIA for days afterwards.”

John nods, distractedly. “Must have been hard on Q.”

“Oh, yes,” M says airily. “Then he proceeded to complete one of the finest pieces of programming this department has apparently ever seen, and when there was a kidnapping attempt on him two days later, he took out all four assailants.”

John can’t help it, he grins, his eyes seeking out Q who is deeply engrossed in his work. He releases a deep breath.  
“They all like to… make people think they have more in common with machines than humans.” He sighs. “Not unlike Bond I imagine.”

“Perhaps,” M allows, though he’s not sure that truly applies. From what he knows of Sherlock Holmes, the man knows everything about the humans he reads like an open book from an outside perspective. Bond, though he analyses another person’s motivations and weak points within a second as well, doesn’t _read_ , he _knows_. What makes him such an exceptional agent is that he does not have to mimic what he assumes will get him the reaction he wants, he can simply _be_ that. A talent that makes him as emotionally detached as Holmes when he needs to deal with the situation at large, because he would break under his own emotions if he didn’t.

“Perhaps a polar opposite,” he adds after a moment.

John nods, slowly. He remembers bits about Bond – which admittedly isn’t much – and he remembers someone who very much enjoyed interpersonal interactions. So very unlike Sherlock.  
“Let’s hope they met in the middle, then.”

They don’t get to deepen their not-so-small talk. Kinsinger walks up to them with an analyst, both looking urgent.

“Sir, I believe we found Moran.”

M takes the pad that is being held out to him. “He left the country?”

“We believe so, sir. He is disguised, but…” he enlarges the image, “but we have to assume it is him.”

“When was this?”

“Six hours ago.”

John stares at the screen, darkly. “Where are Greg Lestrade and Martha Hudson?”

“Martha Hudson was brought to France. Detective Inspector Lestrade is still in London in case we needed him.”

John stares at M instead. “Bring him in. There is no way he’d be safe in a ‘ _safe house_ ’ or the likes.”

M almost imperceptively peeks at Kinsinger and the analyst still standing there. “Captain, you will come with me.” Then he raises his voice. “Q, Moran is almost halfway across to Europe. Keep trying to get back the signal and let me know when your contact has reached the site or anything else major changes.” He doesn’t say, _’if the signs of life stop,’_ he doesn’t have to.

Q looks up from his monitor, temporarily distracted, then nods and continues his work.

M rushes out, John right with him.

“So what was it you didn’t want to say in front of your own people?” John wants to know.

M looks focused and… ever so slightly perturbed. “Mycroft Holmes has arranged it that you have the highest possible clearance level. He assured me that the necessary paperwork has been signed.” He raises an eyebrow at John’s snort. “Yes, I thought that might not have been quite true.”

“Are you having me kicked out where Q can’t see it?” John sounds calm, despite his accusing words.

“I’d rather not end up on all three Holmes’ bad sides.” He smirks. “No, I just need you to speak to Lestrade. He is currently with one of my agents, and I’ve been told that he might not follow orders unquestionably and indefinitely if he isn’t given the reasons.”

John blinks, not quite sure what is supposed to be so secret about that that M would even mistrust his own analysts buried in Q-Branch.

“He’s with an agent who technically doesn’t exist. She completes tasks I need to keep a personal eye on.”

They enter the outer room to M’s office where a young man is seated.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Mister Wilkes. Has Miss Moneypenny not returned yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank you. Let me know when she does.”

“Yes, sir.”

M leads John into his office and closes the door.

John tilts his head. “Your secretary is your agent?”

M walks straight up to his desk and behind it and grins slightly at John. “You are aware, of course, Captain, that it takes quite the résumé to become the secretary to the head of MI6.”

“Former field agent?”

“She shot Bond, once.”

John snorts, amused. Still… “Could you hurry up?”

“Of course.” He makes a call.

It is being answered on the first ring. _“Yes?”_

“Miss Moneypenny, I need you to bring in our guest. Moran is on the way to England.”

She breathes in sharply on the other end. _“The Detective Inspector is not quite as cooperative as we would have hoped. He has made clear in the past hours that he will not remain here for longer than the end of the day, and that he will not agree to be moved, unless he is briefed on the situation.”_ She sounds distinctly amused.

M, in reaction, looks somewhat amused, as well. “Could you please put him on, agent?”

 _“I’ve had it up to here with all this secrecy!”_ an audibly frustrated Detective Inspector yells at the phone without hesitation. _“All I know is that a friend killed himself for me and not a damned thing else! If you don’t tell me what the hell is going on, I’m out of here!”_

M waves John closer to the speaker and gestures him to take over the conversation.

“Greg?”

The rant on the other end stops, immediately. _“… John?”_

“Yeah, listen… I…” He breathes out and starts anew. “I’d rather not have this conversation on the phone. Just go with the agent, she’ll bring you here.”

 _“No. Absolutely not.”_ There clearly will be no complacency from Lestrade, anymore, even if John is asking, though he sounds calmer. It only shows how rattled he is about the news... _“What the hell is going on, John? They showed me the recording on that bloody phone. Sherlock fucking **died** to protect us! So why am I being cashiered away because one of the contractors has suddenly decided to kill us anyway? He…”_ Suddenly, he stops.

John smiles, ruefully. “Sounds different when you say it out loud, doesn’t it?”

 _“No,”_ Lestrade breathes out. _“You… No. You **knew**?”_

John, seeing anger brewing his way, interrupts that thought. “Since yesterday morning when his… _younger_ brother popped by.” He can almost hear Lestrade rub his face.

_“Don’t! I don’t care about brothers and… I… Just **say** it!”_

John licks his lips and looks at M, as if to confirm that the line was truly secure (or as secure as lines would ever get). M nods, once.  
“Yeah, he’s… he’s alive. Though we’ve lost communication, earlier. I…” he licks his lips again and clears his throat, “… I could really use you here, Greg.”

_“Yeah, I… uhm. You… You’ve spoken to him, then?”_

“Yes,” John breathes out, the reality of the situation still too absurd to truly sink in. Sherlock has been dead for a year. He’s been back for a day. He’s been silent again for almost an hour. “Yes, I’ve spoken to him.”

_“Jesus.”_

“Yeah. Just…” John has to bite back tears, again. But Greg knows. Greg has been there. Greg has lost Sherlock like he has. “Please, come in, Greg.”

 _“On our way,”_ he confirms.

The woman takes over. _“I’m bringing him in, sir.”_

“Yes, thank you,” M says before closing the connection.

John rubs his stinging eyes.

“I apologise, Captain,” M says, apparently having anticipated the emotional reaction. “I believed it to be the fastest way.”

“Yeah, no. No, it’s fine. Let’s just go back down.”

M’s mobile phone makes a dinging sound and he looks at the message.  
“Q’s contact is about to enter the compound.”

John’s eyes clear and harden. “Good.”

*

Bond and Sherlock stare at the upper corner on the other side of the high storage room they’re in as it caves and begins covering the large cargo entrance. People are screaming and running for doors and exits, only Sherlock remains standing, his eyes sharp, scanning the ceiling.

“Sherlock!” Bond is about to grab his arm and drag him back into the hallway they came from, but Sherlock darts off out of reach and towards the still falling pieces of concrete and plaster.

“This way!”

Bond, going against every instinct he’s ever possessed, goes after the crazy detective and hopes with every fibre of his being that Q didn’t overestimate his big brother.

Turns out, Q (and Sherlock) was right. Behind them, the corridor collapses under the second explosion, a quickly followed third bringing the whole ceiling of the cargo area to crumble around them.

Sherlock is quick, but Bond manages to grab and pull him against a wall just before a large falling piece of concrete can hit him, then they’re off again towards… the office.

Bond scowls. What the bloody fuck is so important about that fucking office? But he follows the man, nonetheless.

The fourth explosion brings down the outer wall closest to them. This time, a piece of the ceiling hits Sherlock on the head, just as they want to enter the office, and he drops. Bond drags him inside, coughing and wheezing, a cloud of dust and rubble following them. The light flickers but doesn’t go out completely for some reason.

Bond turns around. They’re trapped in quite neatly. He lays Sherlock on the ground and checks him for injuries.

Apart from the bleeding above his temple, there is no visible damage, and Bond carries him into a corner further from the door, in case there are more explosions, and rolls him onto his side before he stands to scan the room for something useful. Not that there is anything.

Eventually, he sits next to the silently breathing body. It’s not like he could move the walls himself. It’s a long shot, even with a second man to help.

 

It takes almost fifteen minutes for Sherlock to stir and groan.

“Alright?” Bond asks.

Sherlock groans some more and moves first into a sitting position, his eyes moving back and forth as if following the trains of thought in his head that analyse his status. Then he stands and runs a hand through his hair to get the dust and small pieces of plaster sticking to it out, so that they stop falling into his eyes.  
He looks around the sealed-off room and his eyes clear some more.

“Easy,” Bond says, though he regrets it when Sherlock shoots him a burning look. Bond holds up his hands.

“We weren’t meant to die,” Sherlock says, his voice rough. “We were meant to stay here locked in, and know that he beat us.” He scowls, grabs the nearest object which happens to be a stapler and throws it into the corner of the window where a piece of glass still sticks out of the frame. (No serious brain injury, then, Bond thinks. Not with that aim.) “Stupid, _stupid_. He left hours ago, and we can’t warn MI6 and John.”

Bond rubs his collar bone (thinking of what neatly lies beneath it). “They know I’m alive,” he says, confidently. “We’ll get out.”

“Yes! But not before Moran gets to London, going after John!”

Bond straightens. “Watson is military and at MI6.”

“Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, then.” Sherlock starts pacing among the scattered papers, taking in every detail. None of the computers work.

Bond sees the sheet of paper that Sherlock has looked at and discarded after a moment. It’s a confirmation for a charter plane.  
“This is no longer a one man show, Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffs. “Oh, really, _James_? Just because you have fallen prey to my brother’s numerous charms, that doesn’t make you a team player. I wouldn’t trust your _’M’_ any more than I’d trust Mycroft, nor do I trust your _intelligence_ gathering service to find its way out of a matchbox without setting fire to the whole building including all the intelligence – however sparse it may have been.”

Bond seems entirely unimpressed. “You’re a ray of sunshine, even more so than Mycroft.”

Sherlock scowls some more for being compared to his older brother.

“And neither are you a team player,” Bond continues. “Though for some reason there appears to be a gap in that inability that contains Captain Watson.” He raises an eyebrow.

Sherlock deflates visibly and breathes out. “John is John.”

Bond nods. “Move that bony Holmes arse and help me find out if we can move some of the debris.”

Sherlock huffs. “Some of those _concrete_ plates?” He paces again. “No. We’re meant to stay here until one of your MI6 colleagues comes here to get us out. I wouldn’t even be surprised if Moran knew where the nearest one would be.” He mutters _’stupid, stupid’_ some more.

“He couldn’t have known we would survive these explosions.”

“Doesn’t matter. I doubt he cared enough. I know the type. Hunter or not, he’s worked for Moriarty too long. Now, he’s a hunter with a taste for _the game_.” There’s clear distaste in his voice when he speaks of _’the game’_ , and it might very well be that it is the first time that Sherlock... tires of it. The game is no longer truly enjoyable. Engaging, but not enjoyable. Not without John.

They both stiffen when some of the concrete groans.

Sherlock’s eyes follow the sound. “This isn’t the sound of more walls giving in to pressure. Local rescue teams?” he asks, more himself than Bond.

“No. They’d take care of the injured outside, first.”

The sound returns, clearly closer, this time, and they move to the opposite wall.

When one piece of the wall caves and lets in the first morning twilight, they both take a hold of their guns.

“¿Es esta la oficina?” someone yells in Spanish, and Bond perks up.

“¡Sí!” This comes from farther away.

The wall moves again and a larger gap opens up.

Sherlock is ready with the gun, James lowers his, slowly.

Somebody hauls himself up to the opening from the outside and looks in. “Rat’s hole you found here, James.”

Bond grins and steps onto the desk closer to the newcomer. “Felix. Amazing timing.”

Felix grins back. “Your charming husband sends his love.”

Bond climbs from the desk to the file cabinet and out of the hole, Sherlock right behind him.

Felix helps both of them out and eyes Sherlock, suspiciously.  
“ _Not_ the hubby,” he says in a tone that says that he knew Q wouldn’t be here, but that the man in front of him bears a somewhat curious resemblance.

“No,” Bond confirms and climbs down over the debris. “Brother in law. Dear _’Quentin’_ is safely in London.”

Sherlock climbs down after Bond with Felix, and huffs at the rusty digger that has apparently been used to break down the piece of wall and ceiling to get them out.

“Brother _in law_?” Felix asks Sherlock, the emphasis only just strong enough to be perceptible.

“Of a kind,” Sherlock answers. “Not secret service, however. I’m leaving that in James’ capable hands.” To his own surprise, there is hardly any sarcasm in his voice. He wonders if that is because Bond has already managed to earn some respect or because he is particularly glad that there will be no further delay.

They come to a halt in front of Bond, local rescue teams beginning to swarm behind them.

Bond steps closer to Felix. “We need a ride back to England.”

Felix nods. “Yes, so I was told. Your target is already halfway there.” He tilts his head to make them follow him to what appears to be a government car. Felix practically shoves his passengers into the back and speeds off past the approaching fire trucks and ambulances.

“You coming along?” Bond asks.

Felix huffs. “Much as I would like to see you in action some more, my local affairs are not done.”

“Did we interrupt an operation?”

“Yes,” Felix shoots back, though without bite. “Your show here might have delayed it anyway, I hope.” The smirks as he peeks into the rear-view mirror. “And tell your husband that this one’s on the house. He can ask for that favour I owe him some other time.”

Bond chuckles.

Sherlock, for his part, is silently impressed. He knows what his brother is capable of, has seen some of it, first-hand. But this is different. This is Desmond having found a niche for himself, built a job around his needs (so much like Sherlock), and created a network that apparently reaches as far as individual agents within the CIA. He would expect such connections from Bond – who is, after all, well-versed in the field and would be used to dealing with people interpersonally – but from Desmond, who is only marginally more sociable than Sherlock, this comes as a surprise. So, yes, he is impressed... and... relieved. Perhaps even happy.

Bond has noticed the array of expressions on Sherlock’s face and turns his head to fully look at him.  
“Your brother is an amazing man with many talents.”

Sherlock nods. “I am aware,” he says, quietly.

Felix smirks, slightly. “Definitely a sharp one.” He remembers all too well how he has met the young man posing as Bond’s newly-wed husband. Sharp, quick, professional. And a surprisingly good match for Bond. A good match professionally, and, so it would now seem, personally. He reminded him of another dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty, but he keeps that bit to himself.

Bond grins, happily.

Sherlock is less relaxed, despite their timely rescue. “Don’t forget that Moran is on his way to England, James.”

“I got you a nice little jet,” Felix pipes up. “You should be able to make up a couple of hours, at least.”

 

They manage to reach the airport in record time, having only just avoided the early morning rush hour. The sun is finally rising as they enter the airfield, just after seven in the morning.

The private jet is indeed waiting, and Felix stops the car right next to it.

“The pilot comes with the plane,” Felix informs Bond, drily. “Try to send them both back in one piece.”

Bond grins. “By return mail.” The smile turns more honest. “Thanks, Felix. Q might not owe you, but I do.”

Felix doesn’t outright accept or decline the offer; he just takes James’ hand and presses it firmly, smirking slightly. “Till next time. Move your ass, James.”

The amused grin is back. “Until then.” He lightly jogs to the plane and up the steps.

Sherlock nods, once, holding Felix’ eyes with his. “I will remember you.”

Felix returns the nod and has the feeling that this promise might come in handy one day. “Have a good trip, Mister Holmes.”

Sherlock doesn’t react to the agent apparently knowing his name – correctly assuming that it has been given to him by Q – and just turns to enter the plane that is already starting up the engines.

As he stands on the top step, he looks skywards. He guesses that the chances of a satellite being above him at that moment are fairly high.

He waves upwards, sardonically and enters.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Spanish should be correct. If there is actually a difference to Chilean Spanish in the sentence and my usage makes you cringe, please let me know ;)


	5. Heart to Heart

Lestrade manages one whole minute in the car next to agent Moneypenny on their way to MI6 before he loses it.  
“Okay. Out with it. I’m assuming it’s safe to tell me what exactly is going on, now. So... I’d appreciate some more information.” His voice quivers with anger and shock and anticipation, his voice crisp and precise. One of his hands is clutching the safety belt, while the other alternately grabs the handle above the door and then flexes on his thigh when the nerves get the better of him and then goes back to the handle.

Moneypenny glances at the watch and quickly calculates. “We’ll be at HQ in another twenty to thirty minutes, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade straightens in his seat, licks his lips, bites them and breathes out sharply. “Eve,” he says, deceptively calmly, no doubt channelling every lesson he ever learned for doing interrogations (not that those would do much good with an MI6 agent). “You don’t mind if I call you Eve, do you?”

Eve’s lips quirk. “Not at all, Greg.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Out with it!”

Eve’s smile softens. The DI has clearance (clearly), and he would be told what he wants to know, anyway. She knows the file and has seen the man react to the recording... The guilt must have been horrifying. Believing that he is responsible for the death of someone he worked with... Yes. Must have been. Horrifying.  
“What would you like to know?”

Lestrade deflates visibly, not knowing what to do with the ball now that it is in his court. The hand that is currently lying on his thigh (clawing into the denim) relaxes, as if its strings had been cut, and he breathes out and rubs his face. _’Focus. You’re an officer, dammit!’_  
“John said they lost contact with Sherlock? Where is he?”

“Chile. He’s after that last contractor, and we sent a double-oh agent to assist him. I have not been briefed, yet, so I can’t tell you why they lost contact or what happened, but I can guarantee you that our man is... very capable.”

Lestrade raises an eyebrow and looks at her. “Not sure I like the tone you added to that last bit.”

Moneypenny smirks. “He’s unconventional, but very efficient.”

Lestrade does a nodding-shaking motion with his head that seems to convey that he should have expected something to that extent. “They will be getting along famously, then.” Lestrade nonetheless can’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“From what I’ve read, they’re not very much alike, apart from that.” She considers that. “And possibly the size of their egos.”

That startles a rough chuckle out of Lestrade. “No matter how confident that agent of yours is, I can guarantee you that his ego will have nothing on Sherlock Holmes’.”

“You haven’t met James Bond.”

“And you haven’t met Sherlock Holmes. You’re going to have to trust me on that.”

“You sound very sure.”

“I am.”

They are quiet for maybe half a minute before Lestrade breaks the silence.

“Wait. John said something about a brother? There’s another brother?”

Moneypenny nods. “Yes. I did know about Mycroft Holmes and his... position...”

Lestrade snorts.

Moneypenny grins. Good. That means she doesn’t have to say something that she definitely is not at liberty to say, no matter the other man’s clearance level.  
“I have only very recently been made aware of the fact that our Quartermaster is his youngest brother. The surname is not uncommon, after all, and I am told Q bears a stronger resemblance to Sherlock than Mycroft.”

Lestrade nods, absently, wondering what seeing the third brother will do to his already shaken equilibrium.  
“If he’s the one doing the surveillance, I’ll tell you when I see him.” His thoughts trail off. “I wonder how John reacted to him...”

“Q was the one to inform Doctor Watson of the situation and bring him to HQ.”

Now, Lestrade openly stares at her.  
“You thought it was a good idea to send in the brother of the man’s dead best friend. The brother that, according to your own words, _bears a strong resemblance_ to said dead best friend?”

Moneypenny blinks. That is quite the strong reaction.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” Not just a strong reaction. A coldly furious one.

“Mister _Mycroft_ Holmes thought it would make it more likely that Watson would remain open to the information he is given and cooperate.”

“ _Mycroft_.” The coldness could go colder still. Interesting.

“I wasn’t aware that you were in dispute.” She had been told that there might be a complicated connection, but this sounded more than merely _complicated_.

“Sherlock’s death _destroyed_ John,” Lestrade says, lowly, intently. “Mycroft knew that.” He huffs. “He probably had him watched, the bastard! And he did _nothing_ as John fell apart. He wasn’t there. _You_ weren’t there! And sending someone who... Oh, Jesus _Christ_!”

“I understand your position.”

“Oh, _do_ you? Do you really?”

“Yes,” Moneypenny answers, unfazed. “Mycroft merely did what his brother asked of him. Namely to protect John Watson. When that safety was jeopardised, Watson had to be brought in, fast. The method that would have him comply the most efficiently was chosen. He was brought in. And so were you.”

“He should have _told_ John that Sherlock was alive!”

Moneypenny looks at him briefly at a red light. “Him but not you?” Lestrade hasn’t complained once about having been left in the dark, himself. Not once. Not even when he realised that Watson had been told a day earlier.

Lestrade’s angry expression crumbles. “You weren’t there. You haven’t seen them together.”

“I’ve seen the file.”

“Not the same thing.” He sounds very certain, again. “The kind of friendship... bond that they shared was... _is_...” He slowly shakes his head and then turns it to look at her, intently. “Like nothing you’ve ever seen before.”

She holds his eyes for a moment before she starts up the engine again. “I’m looking forward to seeing that, then.”

Lestrade’s jaw sets. “You sound sure that they’ll be successful with that thing in Chile.”

Moneypenny’s expression is carefully neutral when she replies. “Bond’s returned from the dead before. I’m sure he’ll have no problem returning someone else.”

Lestrade doesn’t ask what the story behind that veiled remark is and decides that he can deal with the remainder of the drive in silence.

 

It doesn’t take them long to reach their destination, and then he’s distracted by being led into the catacombs of MI6 and towards the Quartermaster’s domain.

The first thing Lestrade notices is John standing next to a man who... is very clearly the mysterious _’Q’_ if the slender frame and the hair he can see from behind are anything to go by.  
Both of them are staring at a large screen that is showing what appears to be a satellite image that is rapidly zooming in on an airport.

Lestrade’s jaw goes slack and his eyes widen.

There, on the screen, is Sherlock, about to board a plane. He is not dressed as Lestrade has come to know him. He is wearing a battered white shirt and... blue jeans of all things. Then he looks up – as if he knows he’s being watched by a piece of metal racing around the planet – and waves.

“Son of a bitch.”

Then Sherlock disappears into the plane, and Lestrade lowers his eyes and sees John grin at him.

John marches right up to him and pulls him into a hug.

Lestrade returns the hug but keeps looking around with wide eyes, finally letting them rest on Q, who nods his head slightly in a curiously familiar manner.  
“Fuck, John...” he breathes out.

John releases Lestrade, sniffs once, clears his throat and rubs his face. “Good to see you, Greg. It’s been...” He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.

Lestrade huffs. “Insane?”

John can’t hold back a laugh. “Pretty much.”

Lestrade fidgets and nods towards the screen. “So... you got the connection back, then?”

John clears his throat again. “Yeah. Well, not the communicator, but we knew they’d got out of the building and went to the airport.” Then he shakes himself and holds out his hand to Moneypenny.  
“I’m sorry. Miss Moneypenny, isn’t it?” He only barely remembers not to call her _'agent'_.

She shakes the hand, smiling. “Doctor Watson.”

From the other side of the room, Q enters the conversation. (Sort of.)  
“Eve, M needs you upstairs. He went to contact Mycroft, again.”

She nods. “I’ll leave you boys to it, then. Don’t blow anything up while I’m gone.”

John feels secure enough to joke. “Not any more, you mean.” Once Moneypenny is out the door, he takes a dazed Lestrade’s arm. “Come on, you should meet... uh, Q.”

Q smiles politely. “Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade just stares for a long moment and, frankly, doesn’t give a fuck about how awkward that must seem. “Jesus... Yeah.” He averts his eyes for a moment, unable to keep looking at that boy, then holds out his hand, shaking Q’s, firmly. “Good to meet you.”

“Likewise. I have been following your cases with my brother with interest.”

Lestrade doesn’t know what to make of that comment, so he puts his hands in his pockets and clears his throat. “So, what’s the situation?”

Q nods towards John. “John?”

“Of course.”

Q returns to his computers.

“Moran – the last contractor – he’s on his way to Europe, Sherlock and Bond are returning, too. They were... delayed.” A shudder runs through John at the memory of the bloody satellite image showing every gruesome detail of the four explosions. He also remembers speaking to Lestrade in that horribly long moment of not knowing, hanging in mid-air.

“Do I even want to know what that means?”

John shakes himself and clears his throat. “Explosion. We’d lost contact, and they went into a building a minute before it blew up.”

Lestrade stares at him.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I could use you here, Greg.”

“No shit.” He doesn’t know whether to look forward to hearing more details or dread it.

“Anyway,” John continues. “There’s not really any telling what Moran will do, now.”

Q is typing, as he speaks. “We’ll discuss the plan of action once I’ve established a safe connection with the plane. Should be mere minutes until M and Tanner are here.” He breathes out. “Bond and Sherlock should rest on their flight, though. Planning with them can wait a few hours. They can’t do anything from up there, anyway.”

“And that...” Lestrade vaguely points towards the screen that shows the progress the plane is making, “... agent Bond. Who is he?”

John eyes flicker to Q who doesn’t seem to react. “Uh... I met him once when he was still in the Royal Navy. He’s a double-oh, now. Should know what he’s doing.”

Lestrade doesn’t seem any more convinced than he did when Moneypenny told him that. “Not sure I like the sound of that. Assassins, no matter who they’re working for, don’t exactly have a good track record when it comes to bringing people home alive. Including themselves, I would imagine.”

John smiles, slightly. “He has an incentive.” He sees Q tilt his head (clearly listening) and clears his throat. “Or a weakness. Depending on who you ask.”

Lestrade catches John’s look and Q’s reaction to the words and puts two and two together. “I see.”  
And he does see. He sees a four. He knows how the right person to hold onto can change a man from a great one to a good one. He takes a deep breath.  
“Well,” he says decisively and steps up to stand next to Q. “What’s your boyfriend’s track record, then?”

Q smirks, not taking his eyes off the screen or his fingers off the keyboard. “I knew you couldn’t be quite as dim as Sherlock always claimed, or he never would have worked with you for as long as he has.”

Lestrade first looks the kind of insulted he always looked when with Sherlock, and then he... looks dubiously flattered. “Thanks,” he says, drily.

“And my... _boyfriend_ always comes back.”

Lestrade raises an eyebrow. “Leaving exploding buildings in his wake?”

“This one wasn’t his doing.”

Lestrade begins to nod, then... “This one?”

Q smirks, again and turns to look at him. “I do know how to properly equip my agents, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade shares a look with John. “Suddenly I’m very glad Sherlock only ever had the lab in his kitchen or at Bart’s at his disposal.”

Then there’s a low humming coming from the speaker. 

“James?”

_“Here, Q.”_

Almost imperceptively, Q breathes out. It is one thing to know that someone is safe and another thing entirely to hear their voice.

“How is Sherlock? There appeared to have been an injury...”

 _“I’m fine!”_ Sherlock snaps.

_“Bloody hold still, you idiot.”_

Sherlock huffs. _“I didn’t anticipate the bomb. I **should** have!”_

 _“Still!”_ Pause. _“There. Doesn’t need stitches.”_

_“As I have told you.”_

Bond sounds amused. _“Yes, well, you were wrong once, today, already.”_

_“As were you.”_

_“Yes, but I am merely – how did you put it? – a blunt weapon relying solely on irrational instinct.”_

Q has to bite his lip to not laugh out loud. Lestrade and John aren’t much better off.

Sherlock huffs.

 _“Your brother is fine,”_ Bond adds. _“His ego took the brunt of that hit.”_

Q grins but doesn’t get to reply to that.

_“John?”_

“Yes, Sherlock.”

Sherlock is quiet for a long moment. _“What are the odds of me talking you into staying exactly where you are no matter what happens?”_

John can’t help but smile. “Abysmal.”

Sherlock sounds tired. _“I thought you might say that.”_

“Greg is here, too.”

... _“Is that so.”_

Lestrade takes a step forwards, even though it has no impact on his voice carrying over the Atlantic.  
“Yeah. And you and I are going to have words when you get back,” he promises, sternly.

 _“I am awash with anticipation,”_ Sherlock says, his sarcasm full of relief.

John snorts. “Okay, that’s enough. You two get some rest up there. There’s not much you can do right now.”

Bond agrees before Sherlock can complain. _“That was the plan,”_ he says, groaning as if he is lying down. _“Keep us posted, Q.”_

“Of course.” Q cuts the open connection, leaving the men their privacy despite his instinctual reaction of keeping James’ voice in his ear. There would be time, later. It’s his personal mantra. James comes back; you have time.

*

“So, James...” Sherlock says, resting against his recliner seat that is fully tilted back, a bottle of water and one with disinfectant standing on the floor next to the bloody, wet rag.  
“Tell me about my brother.”

James next to him just groans. “You’re supposed to rest. You can’t deduce anything without further information, and talking about your brother will only needlessly keep you awake.”

“I have at the very least a clearer picture of Moran and his motives.”

James rubs his face. The ruddy bastard of a Holmes sounds way too awake for his liking.

“We have just escaped an explosion, James. Even I need a moment to wind down from that, and I cannot deny a certain curiosity.”

James sighs. “What is it that you want to know?”

“How two people can go against their respective natures so easily.”

James isn’t sure what he expected, but this isn’t it, and he... can’t but stop and think about that question.

Did he? Go against his nature? Did Q? He doesn’t feel like he did. He knows from painful experience that love is not a foreign concept to him, and neither is trust (however misplaced it may have been at times).

“I didn’t go against my nature,” is what he finally says. “Your brother merely showed me possibilities I didn’t know still existed.”

Sherlock presses his palms together, the tips of his forefingers against his lips. He looks like the statue of a praying saint, James thinks.  
“Found his way to your heart, did he?” he asks, not taking a single word seriously.

“No, no,” James mumbles, mouth quirking a bit. “Getting an emotional response from me is easy. I prefer to feel when necessary, not fake it. It’s more accurate.” He doesn’t turn his head, but he can almost feel the roll of Sherlock’s eyes. “No, your brother managed something else. He managed to have and hold my trust from the beginning.”

Sherlock doesn’t move. “Interesting...” he muses, this word quite serious, unlike the other ones.

“Similar enough to me in his passion for his work to be compatible, different enough in his approach to be complementary.” James’ voice drifts off. 

“That explains your liking to him, not your trust. Your earlier words suggest that there has been... _love_ before, one where your trust turned out to be misplaced. Not with my brother.”

“The second time I met with him, he trusted my judgement enough to go against regulation. Quite the risky breach of protocol, at the time, as our section was under scrutiny, and Q had already made a serious mistake that day. He always has my back, and I knew that long before we got involved.”

It’s quiet for a long time, and James almost thinks that Sherlock must have fallen asleep.

“John shot a man for me the day after we met,” Sherlock says into the silence. “He believed me in mortal peril.”

James huffs. “And were you?”

Sherlock draws in a breath for a quick response, then he stops and releases the breath again, unused.  
“Perhaps,” he says after a pensive moment.

James recognises a concession when he hears one. “Compatible and complementary?”

“Yes.”

Again, it is quiet, both men lost in their thoughts.

James thinks about the words and the questions. He knows that he doesn’t have the deductive mind of the detective, but he also knows that his understanding of the human nature is not to be trifled with. And he is pretty sure he knows why the question was asked in the first place...  
“He will trust you again,” he says, eventually, and this time, he turns his head to look at the reaction.

Sherlock’s expression contorts for a few brief seconds before he can school it, again.  
“Inane platitude,” he forces out. “You have no way of knowing the future.”

“How easily did it come to you to deceive him? To make him believe you were dead?”

Sherlock turns to stare at him, his eyes flashing angrily.

“Not easily, then,” James says, smirking slightly.

“John would be dead had it not been for my efforts. I did what I believed to be the safest course of action.”

“Was it the only one?”

Sherlock’s face crumbles, frustration and pain coming to the surface as if they were being drained from his pores.  
“I don’t know.” Then the helpless frustration wanes, and the anger takes the upper hand, again. “I have spent more time in the past year trying to think of a different solution to Moriarty’s _’final problem’_ than I did hunting his minions.”

“You didn’t want to leave him behind.”

“Of course not! John is the best man I have ever known and the only person I was ever privileged enough to be able to call my friend.” His control slips, and his voice trembles. “Moriarty might as well have won his game, because I lost the one thing I could not bear to lose.”

James studies him for a few heartbeats. “He’ll trust you again,” he says, no doubt in his voice. He watches the traitorous hope blossom on Sherlock’s face along with the doubt and turns his head away, settling in for sleep.  
“Maybe the question you should ask isn’t whether or not anyone found his way to _my_ heart.”

Sherlock blinks, feeling unexpectedly exposed. Bond’s way of reading people appears frighteningly effective. Though he does have the unfair advantage of catching Sherlock on a somewhat... draining day. He will have to rethink his opinion of the man, recalculate his reactions to him, and...

“Go to sleep, Sherlock.”

And to his own surprise, Sherlock eventually does. Too much hiding, too much death, too long a time isolated...  
John. Soon.  
He’s asleep.

*

They sleep for several hours before a transmission wakes them up.

James... no, Bond answers it.

“Here, Q.”

Q’s voice is clipped and sharp. His words unexpected. “He’s heading for France.”

 


	6. Going In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I took a trek into darkness and got lost a bit :3

It’s surprisingly easy, Q finds, to sleep next to someone who isn’t James.

John had been offered a bunk (one that Lestrade was willing to take), but when he said that he’d just nap in a chair in Q-Branch somewhere out of the way of people, clearly because he’d been afraid to miss something crucial, Q had instead offered to share his fold-out couch in his office.

And if Q hadn’t been as exhausted as he was, he’d have put down John’s ability to fall asleep quickly and deeply to his military past where sleep was precious and hardly ever uninterrupted. Then again, it might as well have been down to Sherlock’s erratic living habits. Possibly both.

Q’s own ease of falling asleep is directly proportional to the number of hours he’s pushed his remarkable mind. Much like his detective brother, he hardly remembers to sleep until he does. _Unlike_ his detective brother, he is at least somewhat aware of his bodily needs.

They manage a few hours, both lying perfectly still and sleeping efficiently, before they’re woken.

 

“Q?”

Q blinks, rubs his eyes and takes the glasses that Eve is holding out for him. When he can see her expression, he sits, quickly, startling John awake in the process.  
“Yes?”

“Moran isn’t coming to England.”

Q frowns, still not quite awake. Where else would he…

John, on the other hand, who is much closer to at least two of the Moran’s targets, catches on, quickly. “France. You said France.” He stands before he can even think about it.

Q stands as well. “Shit. Did you contact Lawrence?”

Moneypenny’s expression darkens.

Q pauses. “That little _bastard_!” he curses, marching out of the door. “He must have given Moran the specs of my communicator, too.”

Moneypenny and John hurry after him, John taking a hold of her arm. “Who is Lawrence?” He has a hunch, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“Field agent. Still relatively new.”

John’s jaw sets.

“Protecting a civilian would have been well within his field of competence.”

They enter Q-Branch where Q is already starting up his workstation, contacting Bond and Sherlock’s pilot.

John huffs. “I guess he thought his field of competence exceeded the protection of civilians.”

Before Q contacts the passengers, there is still something else… “Keller.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go over Lawrence’s background checks. Don’t stop until you find something.”

Keller is immersed in searching for the according files, immediately, not bothering with a reply.

Q hesitates. “A cross-reference with James Moriarty might get you somewhere.” He hopes he’s wrong. If there is a connection, that might very well mean that there’s not just Lawrence whom they have to worry about.

At that, she looks up for a second, clearly understanding the implications. “Yes, sir.”

Q opens a connection.

 _“Here, Q,”_ Bond answers the hail.

“He’s heading for France.”

 _“Mrs Hudson?”_ This comes from Sherlock.

Q hesitates. Sherlock is not going to like this. “The agent we’ve sent with her is not responding.”

John lets Q discuss the situation with his brother and partner, and takes a hold of Moneypenny’s arm, again, pulling her slightly to the side.  
“Is there a way to get to France in time?”

Moneypenny’s eyes flicker to the screen and back to John. She lowers her voice. “They can’t land close to the safe-house, provided she’s still there, and the satellite images have shown no movement.”

“Helicopter?”

“Possibly, yes.”

John stares at her, intently, both of them understanding each other quite well.  
“I need to go there. Something tells me you might, too.”

“Since this is hopefully the last shred of Moriarty’s network, yes. M’ll want me on it to keep a close eye on the proceedings for... Mister Holmes the elder.”

 _“John,”_ comes Sherlock’s voice from the speaker. _“Whatever you’re planning, that is not a good idea.”_

John glowers at the screen where the map shows the progress that Sherlock’s plane is making.  
“Neither was you playing dead!”

There is no answer, and another thought occurs to John.

“And I remember what you did the last time someone threatened Mrs Hudson. I don’t want to miss that.” It’s a lame excuse, and he’d rather have everyone safe, but… he can’t stay behind. There is just no way that he will hide here, while two of the people most important to him are in mortal peril.

Sherlock, once more, doesn’t reply.

 _“He defers to your superior argumentation,”_ Bond says, sounding amused.

“Then you will hopefully defer to mine,” Q says, putting in an earpiece and unhooking his laptop. “I’m coming along.”

 _“What?!”_ That decidedly does not sound as if Bond has any intention of deferring to anything.  
 _“Q…”_

Q has to give James that; he’s calmed his voice in record time between the two words and now sounds perfectly reasonable.

_“I need you where you are. I need you having my back.”_

Nevertheless, Q isn’t impressed. “I have a perfectly good team, here, James. But we don’t know what else Lawrence has fed Moran. There might be a need for someone to program or modify on his feet and on-site.”

Bond pauses. _“I need you safe.”_

“I will be. I’m not going to get in on the action, but if there is a security system on that compound, you’ll need me to crack it. Lawrence will know better than have his system accessible remotely.”

_“You hate flying...”_

Q smiles and hands two earpieces to Moneypenny and John. “Nice try, James.” He grabs the bag with his laptop, and they all turn to go…

Only to find Mycroft stand in the doorway, M next to him.

“There is absolutely no need for you to go along, Desmond.”

Q’s hand tightens on the strap of his bag. His chin rises defiantly. “There is,” he says, he voice coldly calculated, but even a few seconds of his brother’s stare has an effect on him. In spite of – or maybe because of – the urgency of the situation. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“I understand quite clearly that you are not a field operative, and that your expertise is best suited for backup.”

Q stands firm. “Backup that I will provide. I am perfectly capable of…”

“You are a programmer!” Mycroft interrupts him, harshly, surprising even himself with his tone of voice.

_“Mycroft!”_

Both Q and Mycroft are breathing, heavily, not taking their eyes off of each other, but Sherlock’s voice startles them into silence.

_“Leave him be. He is right. You wouldn’t understand.”_

Sherlock can’t see Mycroft’s face, but Q can. It is nothing new to Mycroft that both his brothers defy him, think him too far removed in age and mind to ever truly understand. Too much like their father; too much of a _Holmes_. Sentiments that reach Mycroft despite his best intentions.

Q breathes in, possibly to plead with his older brother, but then he turns his head to look at M, instead.  
“Sir?”

M, only too aware of Mycroft standing next to him, finally nods. “Miss Moneypenny, take them by way of the armoury.”

She tilts her head. “Yes, sir.” She smirks.

He leans closer to her. “I need you to fly. Don’t inform anyone else,” he adds in a low voice.

Moneypenny leads both John and Q out of the room, the latter of which sharing a pleading look with Mycroft, but his steps don’t falter for a moment.

Once they are outside and well out of earshot, Mycroft walks closer to the screen and the microphones.

“You are wrong.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer immediately. _“I am aware,”_ he admits. _“But this is what he needs to do.”_

Mycroft straightens his back, as if Sherlock were standing in front of him and he in need of his full height.  
“As I need to be the one to occasionally remind the two of you that there are people who find you… irreplaceable.”

Sherlock doesn’t have an answer.

*

Moneypenny leaves the choice of weapons to Q and John, and then brings them to the helicopter that is being made ready for departure.

She turns towards John as they’re watching the crew finish. “You didn’t want to tell your friend the Inspector that you’re leaving?”

John distractedly shakes his head. “He’d want to come along, and I don’t think I have the hypocrisy in me to tell him to stay behind.”

Q tilts his head. “You wouldn’t want him to join us?”

John grins slightly. “Didn’t your M just say that we’re not to take anyone else?”

Q shares a look with Moneypenny. “I’m sure that – should he be told that taking an additional man is deemed useful – he could be persuaded.”

Moneypenny smirks. “Persuaded after the fact if necessary?”

“Occasionally,” Q admits, the he sobers. “M is very good at what he does, and that means trusting the judgement of his operatives when necessary.” He effectively sends the ball back into John’s court.

John lowers his eyes for a moment. “Greg is a good police officer and a good friend. But he has hardly any field experience.” He clears his throat, remembering how Greg has downright enjoyed the clusterfuck that was the Baskerville case. Still… chasing a monster hound is something else than chasing a military trained assassin.  
“He will not be kept out of the loop when we disappear, will he?”

Moneypenny takes the key to the helicopter and nods at the technician in thanks. “No. His insight will be taken into account. Aside from you two, he is the most likely to know Sherlock’s MO.”

They enter the helicopter, John and Q in the back, Moneypenny in the cockpit, all of them putting on headsets.

“Couldn’t it be that we’re leading Moran to the safe house?” John wants to know.

Q is opening his laptop. “He’s heading for France, and our agent doesn’t respond. I believe it’s safe to say that he already knew. Nevertheless, I’m keeping an eye on his flight route, just in case.”

Moneypenny narrows her eyes. “If I get my hands on Lawrence, I’ll whip his stupid arse.”

John doesn’t immediately respond. There is another thought, one that he has so far desperately tried not to think too loudly.  
“What… what would he do to Mrs Hudson?”

Q determinedly keeps his eyes on his screen. “Hard to say,” is all he says.

Moneypenny has an idea, but she has a hunch that John has come to the same conclusion. “What do you think, Captain?”

John sighs. “It… seems like Moran wants to play with Sherlock. I hope… that means that he’s making your man keep her as a hostage.”

“I’m inclined to go with that, until we know anything else,” Moneypenny agrees. “He’s gone to a lot of trouble to make sure that Sherlock is only hours behind him.”

Q’s typing stops and he raises his eyes to look at the back of her head.  
“You think he’s expecting us, as well.”

“Possible. We’ll just have to raise hell,” she says, sounding unconcerned.

Q keeps his thoughts on that to himself; he just gets to work and establishes the connection with Bond and Sherlock.

“Where exactly are we headed?” John asks.

Q is typing, again. “Outside of Paris.”

John stares ahead. “I guess it’s too much to hope for that he’ll be apprehended at whatever airport he’ll pick?”  
When Q doesn’t answer and instead types furiously, he turns to look at him. “Q?”

“Oh, shit!”

Moneypenny keeps her eyes up front. “What’s going on?”

Q wordlessly tilts his computer towards John, and John understands without explanations.

“Fuck,” is all John can say.

“Q!” Moneypenny demands.

“He fucking crashed the bloody plane!”

“ _Shit_!” Moneypenny presses her lips together for a moment. “Take care of it. I’m still heading for the safe house.”

Q first contacts his department. “Keller.”

Keller replies immediately. _“Here, sir.”_ She sounds harried, never even has to ask why she is contacted so soon. _“We are coordinating efforts with the French authorities. Rescue teams are on the way.”_

“Are there satellite images of the plane before the crash?”

_“No, sir. We have a gap. We are checking CCTV on the ground along the flight route before or shortly after the crash.”_

John looks at Q. “You think he jumped?”

“Must have. He couldn’t have landed close to the site. Then again, jumping would prove difficult, too, but he is probably close enough to get there relatively quickly. Not sure if he can make it before we do. _Bond_!”

_“We heard. How long until you get there?”_

Moneypenny answers. “An hour. Possibly less if I’m pushing it. Which I am.”

Bond’s humour despite of the situation is clearly audible through the speaker. _“Miss Moneypenny. So good to have you back in the field.”_

Moneypenny rolls her eyes (since nobody can see her face, anyway). “I’ll refrain from shooting you.”

 _“Appreciated,”_ is what he begins to say when Sherlock interrupts.

_“Oh, no. Please don’t hold back on my account.”_

Moneypenny smirks. “It wouldn’t be on your account, Mister Holmes. Or Bond’s…”

“Thank you,” Q agrees, drily. “He is particularly insufferable when shot, and I would be the one who has to deal with the healing process.”  
He hesitates. “We should keep communication to a minimum. There was no time to switch to a different type of communicator, and if they jammed the signal once, they can jam it a second time.”

Keller enters the discussion, again. _“I can try to obfuscate their efforts from here. But interrupting the connection would be more difficult for them if it is not open.”_

Q nods, distractedly. “I don’t want to close it completely. I need the option of opening a channel.” He squints at the screen, mumbling, “This would have been so much easier if we’d had the time to do this properly.” He sighs, then adds, louder, “Can you modify the signal of Bond’s tracker to activate the communicator?”

_“Probably, but when I access it, it might be detected.”_

Q curses under his breath. He doesn’t want the tracker to become common knowledge. He’s put too much time and effort into it. “Get everything ready in case we need it. Don’t establish a traceable connection just yet.”

_“Yes, sir.”_

“James…”

 _“We’ll be here when you’re ready,”_ Bond says, calmly. _“See you in France. I might take you to Paris when this is over.”_

Q has to smile at that. “Take care.”

_“You too.”_

Then the connection is dead, and silence takes over the helicopter despite the engine and the three people in it.

*

Bond returns from the cockpit and for a moment watches Sherlock absently stare out of the window. 

“How long until we get there?” Sherlock wants to know.

The detective appears strangely calm; Bond narrows his eyes and flops down onto his seat next to him. “Roughly three hours. Felix didn’t disappoint.” He doesn’t add that they still won’t be on-site after the landing.

Sherlock doesn’t even blink. He just turns to look at Bond, raising his eyebrow. He hasn’t been quite as absent, then, after all.

“You’re suspiciously serene.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer and instead looks out of the window, again.

“You think they’ll be captured,” Bond states.

Sherlock closes his eyes and releases a slow breath. “Making Moran believe that everything is going according to plan might keep him from killing Mrs Hudson. Or anyone else. At least until we get there.”

Bond’s expression remains neutral. “We’ll get them all out.”

“Yes.”

Bond stands, too restless to remain seated without a drink or two in his bloodstream, and walks to the bar.  
“So, your theory that Moran is military with a newly acquired taste for the game still stands, then?” He downs a drink in one, large gulp.

“You have a different opinion, James?” Sherlock asks, tapping his lip and watching passing clouds.

James pours himself a second drink and returns to his seat. “No.”

“Then that seems to be the given approach.”

“So. Your landlady. What’s the story, there?”

“No story,” Sherlock answers, sounding bored.

“Really.” James huffs. “I seem to remember reading something about a… run-in with the CIA, involving your landlady.”

That gets Sherlock to turn his head, a tiny smirk hovering in the corner of his mouth. “The lack of intelligence of the American intelligence is hardly my problem.”

Bond smirks back. “Careful, there.” His eyes roam over the interior of their plane.

“I trust you to discern your friends with more tact than that.”

“High praise from the likes of you.”

Sherlock appears to have an answer, but he is stalling for an uncharacteristically long moment.  
“Let’s not disappoint the trust that the few friends that we have have put into us, then.”

Bond studies him. “We shouldn’t doubt our competence in choosing friends, either. They know what they’re doing, or we never would have chosen them.”

Sherlock returns the look.

Bond smiles.

Sherlock nods.

*

“Ten minutes,” Moneypenny informs her passengers.

John unconsciously checks his two weapons, strapped securely to his body.

Q just nods, absently. “Keller, do we have anything on Moran’s landing, yet?”

_“No, sir. Sorry, sir. But, either way, he would have to be on-site, by now, given the distance.”_

John shifts in his seat. “Any visible activity?”

_“None that we can make out.”_

“Moneypenny, how close are you taking us?” Q asks.

“Well, they know we’re coming, by now, I’d say. But just attacking with the helicopter is not an option, not with a hostage inside. So, close enough to see what’s going on, far enough away that they can’t reasonably open fire from within the house.”

John looks out of the window. “I want you to go pick up Bond and Sherlock after I’m off.”

Moneypenny huffs. “You’re trying to keep me out of harm’s way? Do I need to remind you which one of the people in this helicopter is a trained agent?”

“You definitely would have the best chance, down there, but that’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then, Captain?” There’s only a little sarcasm in her voice. She’s almost impressed by her restraint.

“The point is that this is a trap. Moran is playing for time, which means that he wants more hostages, and given that Bond’s relationship with Q here is an open secret, he’ll go after him as well as me if given the chance. He’s also completing Moriarty’s work. He needs to destroy Sherlock, first, before he kills him. He wants me.”

Q stares ahead. “And you think giving him the hostage he wants is the right course of action?” He sounds like he already knows the answer to that.

“Sherlock didn’t say a word, earlier, even though he must have known that. He must have calculated that the best chance to get Mrs Hudson alive is to play along for as long as necessary.” He licks his lips. “He’s also probably counting on Bond, as are you two.” He breathes out through his nose. “I’m going in alone. You two get to the airport.”

Q types something, resolutely presses enter and turns to look at John. “I’m coming with you.”

“I am _not_ ,” Moneypenny interrupts, “letting you two go in there alone. Neither of you has the training!”

“And neither of us can fly a helicopter,” Q reasons. “Having me as well as John will give them a false sense of security.”

“Or a very real advantage!” Moneypenny argues.

“Eve.”

“ _Shit_!”

Q smiles. “If there is a security system, I need to be there to take it down. That’s why I’m here.” Moneypenny doesn’t answer. “I can take care of myself. You know I can.”

Moneypenny sighs. “You’re going to let them capture you.” It’s not a question.

John grins. “Well, if we get the chance to just walk in, take Mrs Hudson and leave again, we’ll of course take it...”

Moneypenny rolls her eyes.

“You’re the agent,” Q adds. “You’re useless to us as another hostage. We need you as a backup who can fly us the hell out of there.”

Moneypenny’s lips are a grim line. “I hate you, boffin.”

Q smiles. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. At least as much as I hate Bond.” 

She sets out to land.

 


	7. Glow In the East

“I’m gonna bloody kill him.” Greg stares at the screen in Q-Branch and at agent – are people in Q-Branch even called _agent_? He doesn’t know, nor does he care – Keller who has the good grace to look slightly guilty at his appearance.

“Detective Inspector,” she greets him. “Please take a seat.” She nods towards the side, and while she still appears to feel somewhat uncomfortable, she has no qualms to tell him (in the most polite way possible) to get the hell out of the way.

Lestrade stares at the screen for a long moment before he complies. He’s still surprised that nobody stopped him when he returned here, and he doesn’t want to test his luck.  
“Could anyone fill me in?”

Keller bustles around and signs someone to answer his questions. “Just assume he’s got clearance,” she says. Not particularly professional; then again, as far as she is concerned, nothing has been professional during this case, and she’s well fed up with it.

Lestrade looks up to the programmer next to him, expectantly.

“We’ve lost contact with the Quartermaster and Captain Watson.” The man keeps typing. “As, _apparently_ , expected.” He doesn’t sound as if he, like Keller, even vaguely approves of how this operation has been going. “007 and Mister Holmes are about to land and should be picked up by the helicopter within minutes.”

Lestrade looks at the screen of the man and points at something that looks like vital signs. “What’s that?”

“007.”

There are two pairs of steps and Lestrade looks up and stands, his expression turning thunderous.

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft greets him. “Good evening.”

M raises one eyebrow at the two men and walks past them and right up to Keller.

“Did you know about this?” Lestrade demands, his voice dangerously low.

Mycroft shifts slightly, looking oddly out of place without his usually ever-present umbrella. “To what exactly are you referring?”

“ _Anything_! _All_ of it!” Lestrade catches himself before he can yell some more and bites his lips. His jaw visibly sets and he breathes out, harshly, before he stares at Mycroft, again.

“Was I aware of Sherlock’s plans one year ago?” Mycroft fills the silence. “Yes,” he admits. “Did I deceive you for that time? Also, yes. It was for your protection...”

Lestrade doesn’t let him finish his sentence. “I don’t _give_ a fuck, Mycroft Holmes.” He doesn’t yell, but he might as well, for the intensity his voice carries. “I lost a friend, but John lost _everything_. And now, he went off to get it back!” His voice rises again, despite his best intentions. “Did you know about that, too?!”  
He nearly jumps when someone lays a hand on his shoulder from behind.

“I assure you, Detective Inspector,” M begins, “that Mister Holmes has attempted to stop the Quartermaster and Captain Watson from leaving.”

Lestrade shakes off the hand and stares down Mycroft, unimpressed by the explanation. “ _Of course_ you tried to stop John from going.” He huffs. “Why the hell should you do that? You never have, before. To you, John has never been anything but an accessory to keep Sherlock in line for you.”

Mycroft appears actually startled by that. He draws in a breath to defend himself, but then just breathes out. “I... suppose I deserved that.”

Lestrade sags a bit.

“I am well aware that I have failed both my brother and his partner,” Mycroft continues. “I have failed Sherlock in ways that I can never hope to repay, and in the attempt to make amends, regardless, I have done his bidding to protect John...” he slowly shakes his head, smiling sadly, “... and failed _him_ as a consequence.”

Lestrade sighs, his shoulders slump further, and he rubs his forehead with one hand before he looks up again.

“And I suppose I have failed you, as well, Detective Inspector?”

Lestrade _was_ going to at least protest his being left behind, this time, but... He shakes his head. Despite everything, he doesn’t have it in him to take Mycroft apart some more. And though he has police training, this is not the type of mission where he would have been useful. He hopes that everyone who _did_ go is up for it...

“Both my brothers are out there, Gregory. And John, whom I couldn’t be closer to if he were my brother by blood, is with them.” He pauses. “I assure you, I have failed myself worst of all.”

 _“Sackcloth and ashes, dear brother. They hardly suit you.”_ Sherlock sounds amused, despite of the situation.

Lestrade and Mycroft turn towards the screen and speakers where the voice and the even sound of a helicopter engine have come from.

Mycroft briefly sucks in his lower lip to bite it, annoyed, then sighs with a tilt of his head. “Is this really the time, Sherlock?”

 _“No,”_ Sherlock agrees. _“But rest assured that I will remind you of your words in time.”_

Bond interrupts them before the brotherly squabble can get out of hand, despite both of them claiming that they do not have the time for such a distraction.  
 _“Keller. Moneypenny says you’ve lost contact with Q and Watson?”_

“Yes,” she confirms.

_“Did they enter the compound, do you know?”_

“We lost contact once they were inside. There is no artificial lighting in the area, and the satellite images are accordingly lacking, but we were still in communication when they entered.”

 _“Good.”_ Sherlock doesn’t seem overly worried. On the contrary.

Lestrade doesn’t share that optimism. “Are you out of your mind?!”

_“Moran might have recently got a taste for the game, but he’s not an accomplished player, yet. He would not have risked letting in two trained individuals if he just wanted a bargaining chip, because he already has one. No, he wanted MI6 to know that he has one of their operatives and me that he has John, which is why he didn’t cut the connection, sooner. He needed to demonstrate his superior position, and now that he thinks he has it, he will keep them alive as bait. Unlike in Chile, he cannot simply blow the building once we’re inside to get the hostages, because this helicopter is equipped with thermographic cameras – something I’m sure his contact will have told him – so we’d know if he has already left and wouldn’t enter before we got to him. He believes he has the advantage because he has three hostages and two people who would do anything to get them back. There is one thing he won’t have considered, though...”_

M nods, slowly. “Miss Moneypenny, I trust you’re up for this.” It’s not a question, and he wouldn’t have asked it under normal circumstances; however, since her unofficial position is still not common knowledge (even if her past as a field operative might be), he deems it safer to keep up the guise.

_“Yes, sir.”_

*

The door to the small room closes loudly behind them, Lawrence’s voice still carrying through it.

“You know, I’ve heard stories about you in the field, Q. I guess stories were all they were...” With that, he walks away.

Q doesn’t grace that with an answer, and John is already running towards the small, ratty couch where a shaken but otherwise healthy looking Mrs Hudson is sitting.

She stands, immediately. “John!”

John runs to her, lets her wrap her arms around him (since his are zip-tied behind his back) and inconspicuously checks her for injuries.

She whispers in his ear. “There are cameras in this room.”

“We know,” he whispers back, smiling. There is no messing with Mrs Hudson.

She looks over his shoulder, squints in the low light of the single bulb and slowly lets go of John.  
“Is that... the young man who was with you, the other day?”

John clears his throat and stands by her side, leaning towards her to remain a calming presence.  
“Yes, this is... uh...” He’s not sure how to introduce Q, anymore.

Q just smiles. “Desmond Holmes. I’d offer you a hand, but I’m afraid that will have to wait until later.”

Mrs Hudson manages to smile back. “Another one?”

“Another brother, yes,” Q confirms.

She doesn’t look in the least surprised. “You do have the look, dear.”

John grins at her.

“I don’t suppose...” she begins and looks around for the camera, “that you have brought weapons.”

“We have, yes,” Q says, also briefly checking the room for surveillance. “Mister Lawrence has seen fit to take them from us.” He guides Mrs Hudson over to the couch, again.  
“There are only cameras, no microphones. I know the models,” he explains. “It would seem odd if we didn’t look like we were making sure that you are unharmed.”

She blinks at him and sits. “Oh. Oh, yes, of course.” She immediately wraps her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and slightly hunches in her seat.

John kneels in front of her and with his back to the camera, while Q sits next to her.

John grins at them. “Mrs Hudson can deal with the CIA. She can deal with this.”

Only a moment later, Q perks up when he can hear a sound in the distance. He exchanges a look with John.

“Helicopter,” John says.

“Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson asks.

John nods, listening to the sound coming closer. “Yes.”

After a minute, when the sounds of the engine are nearly at the house, they’re being interrupted by a low and harsh hissing sound... and then a loud explosion.

Both John and Q are holding their breath, looking at the ceiling of their cellar cell, as if they could look through it if only they tried hard enough.

The engine sounds don’t disappear, but they are disjointed and fragmented, racing over their house and then crashing loudly in the distance.

Mrs Hudson jumps and leans closer to Q who is still sitting next to her.

John sends a hard look to Q. “Bond will have prepared for that,” he says, not allowing room for discussion.

Q nods, firmly. “Yes.” When they hear someone upstairs running out of the house, he smirks. “The second person must have been outside to fire that shoulder-launched missile. I guess it’s just us, in here, now.”  
He stands, only to sit on the floor and then appears to fold himself into a tiny package. He manages to shift his tied arms under and then in front of him and stands. In one quick move, his elbows push past his hips and snap the tie in half.

John grins. “I’m afraid I’m not quite as limber.”

Q just grins back and reaches for his belt. He pulls a small blade out from a slim pocket on the inside of the leather and moves to untie John.  
“That’s what they get for only taking weapons, watches and shoes...”

Mrs Hudson looks delighted, despite of their dire situation. “You are quite handy, Mister Holmes.”

Q grins, and John turns to look at her. 

“You should see his department, Mrs H...” John can’t help but grin at her, too.

Q hurries to the door and makes a short shrift of the lock with his knife, unlocking it with hardly any more effort than if he’d had the appropriate key.

They run up the stairs, Q in front and John both guiding and shielding Mrs Hudson, and enter the main living area.

Through the window, they can see the reddish glow in the east where the helicopter must have crashed less than a kilometre away.

Since the open kitchen area is without any large windows, John urges Mrs Hudson to go that way, while Q checks the window pointing east to see if their two captors are outside. They are.

“Moran and Lawrence are outside.” He squints. “No sign of James or Sherlock,” he adds after a moment and turns towards the kitchen. “Were there other men? Or only two?”

“Just the two,” Mrs Hudson confirms. “At first it was just that agent. He did seem a bit of an odd fellow from the beginning, and then he locked me downstairs when I started asking questions. The other man arrived a bit later.”

John for his part looks around for the weapons that have been taken from them and stops short when he sees wires coming from the refrigerator. “Q?”

Q abandons his task to find hide or hair of James when he hears the strain in John’s voice.

“Q, you better come here, now.”

Q takes one look at the fridge and... “Shit.”

“Can we open it?”

Q just does it after another moment’s hesitation. “Yes,” he says when the house doesn’t blow up around them. The contraption inside is issued with a timer that is counting down from five minutes and fourteen seconds.  
He studies it and then starts opening drawers. “John, find our weapons and take Mrs Hudson to the front door. _Don’t_ go back downstairs. There’s a wire going down. We’d be buried.”

John brings her to the westwards-facing door. “Don’t go outside, just now. Stay in the doorframe.”

She nods, and he is off, opening cupboards.

After no more than half a minute, he calls, “I’ve got them, Q.”

Q is busy opening the bomb’s casing with two knives and a fork and doesn’t look up. “Put one for me on the table. I have to take care of this, first.”

John does as he’s asked. “Can you deactivate it?”

“Yes.”

John takes Q’s word and returns to the window. “Shit!” he curses when he hears shots and sees an approaching figure dropping his weapon as it’s being shot out of his hand. Must be Moran’s shooting at that distance.  
“Q! Hurry!”

“I’m on it! Give me a minute!”

There is muffled shouting John can barely make out through the closed window and the second approaching figure – this one clearly Sherlock – drops his weapon without another shot being fired.

John lifts his weapon and opens the window. He doesn’t know which of the men he can only see the backs of is Moran, so he aims at the man closer to the house, while the other steadily approaches Bond and Sherlock. He fires, and the man goes down.

Only a split-second later, a second shot rings out, and Sherlock crumbles to the ground, appearing to clutch his arm.

“Sherlock!”

The man standing runs towards Sherlock, holds his weapon on Bond, and then pulls Sherlock to his feet, gun steadily on his head and backs away from Bond further, before turning to look at the house. Moran.  
“Doctor Watson!” he calls, loudly and clearly. “I want you and the Quartermaster unarmed or Holmes dies first!”

John crouches below the window. “Q, tell me you’ve got it.”

“I’ve got it,” Q says as he returns from the kitchen area. “Did you get Lawrence?”

John nods. “Sherlock’s been hit. In the arm, it looked like.”

Mrs Hudson gasps.

“I’m waiting, Doctor Watson!”

Q and John approach the door.

John briefly holds Mrs Hudson firmly by the shoulders. “Wait outside, but stay on this side of the building. It will be fine,” he adds the promise with a slight smile. “We’ll all go home, soon.”

With that, John and Q exit the house and walk around it.

They can’t make out the expression on Moran’s face, but it is certain to be gleeful. That is what his voice sounds like, too. “Do come closer!”

Bond has steady eyes on Moran, clearly waiting for the momentum needed to attack.

Q notices it. “If Moran kills one of us, it’ll give Bond enough time to take him out,” he says, quietly, calmly.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“That’s enough!” yells Moran when they’re maybe twenty or thirty metres away.

Q and John stop short.

“You know, Doctor Watson,” Moran says almost chattily, “I’d much rather kill you and have this one watch...”

Sherlock struggles in the secure hold, the hand that is coming up is blood-stained but mobile, and Moran pulls him closer, again, pressing the muzzle of the gun painfully into the side of his head.

“Hold still, Detective!” Moran hisses, then he returns to his negotiations with John. “We all know that I can’t take out all four of you, but I’ll be damned if I don’t finish the objective, and I don’t give a fuck about fucking MI6, so it’s you or him.”

“Me!” Sherlock tries to call out, his struggling growing weaker, what with the lack of oxygen because of the strong arm pressing on his throat.

Moran grins, darkly. “I’m waiting, Doctor.”

John watches Sherlock’s movements that grow more unsteady by the second... “Alright!”

“No, John!”

“Doctor Watson,” Moran continues, dangerously calmly, “you will use the weapon that you’ve brought and that is stuck in the back of your trousers. And you will turn it on yourself. Once you have done so, I will release the Detective.”

Sherlock no longer has the breath to protest, but his pleading eyes turn to John.

John breathes in, harshly. “I have no guarantee that you’ll let him go if I do this.”

Moran grins, again. “Like Moriarty had no guarantee that this one would die if he did. You are just going to have to trust your Mister Bond, here, that he finishes the job in time.”

John hesitates for no longer than a heartbeat and reaches for his gun.

Sherlock minutely shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I can’t watch you die, again.” He has his gun in hand, his arm still hanging limply at his side.

Q shares a look with James who catches his eyes and then moves his own to the side and into the distance. Q catches on. They only need to buy a little more time, then. “John...” He doesn’t even know what he wants to say.

“No more!” Moran interrupts whatever Q was going to say. “I want...”

A shot echoes in the silence and Moran falls, like a puppet with its strings cut.

Too shocked to even check what the hell that has been, John rushes to Sherlock, who has fallen next to Moran and gasps for breath. He grabs him, pulls him into a sitting position, his hands restlessly checking the throat for a pulse, running over the messy hair, touching, touching. Before he manages to get to checking the injury on the arm, his vision blurs, and he just clings to his friend with all his might, his tears flowing freely.

Sherlock sags into the embrace and returns it with his left arm. “My dear John.”

Q has been watching the exchange with a fond look, before he himself feels like he deserves a little reassurance, and he goes and gets it in the form of a kiss from Bond.

 

A minute later, they are once more being interrupted.

“Well, isn’t that sweet.”

Q and Bond smirk into the kiss before they end it and look at the newcomer.

Bond raises an eyebrow. “Good shot.”

“Well, you know...” Moneypenny says, her rifle nonchalantly leaning against her shoulder, “... the target wasn’t moving.”

John looks over his shoulder at the approaching agent and then back at Sherlock who smiles at him, tiredly.

“She jumped two kilometres before we reached the house. Bond flew the last bit,” he explains and then shrugs, one-sided. “Moran didn’t expect her.”

John’s eyes sting and blur, again, and he frames Sherlock’s head with both hands, smoothing his hands over the dark locks, again and again, before he feels steady enough to firmly kiss his friend, just once, and just because he doesn’t know where else to put his relief and happiness and love.

They have time to discuss the details later. They have that again. A _later_.

 


	8. Coming Home

After reports and questioning and medical examinations and having to leave Mrs Hudson in the hospital for observation, John finally unlocks the front door of 221B and opens it, looking over his shoulder when Sherlock remains at the bottom of the few steps.  
“Okay?” he asks, though Sherlock looks far better than just _'okay'_. He looks at peace and shaken to the core at the same time.

Sherlock stands still, looking somewhat out of place in his non-descript, dark blue tracking suit he was given at MI6 and with his right arm in a sling. And he cannot seem to take his eyes off of the face of building before him, as if he can’t believe that he is truly here. That it is over. Finally, finally over.

John smiles, understanding. “Home?”

Sherlock lowers his eyes until they meet John’s. “Yes.” He holds John’s eyes long enough for the other man to understand that he is talking about more than just his London and his Baker Street. He is also talking about his John.

Their smiles widen, and, finally, John tilts his head sideways to the open door and holds out his right hand. “Coming?”

Releasing a deep breath, Sherlock takes the offered hand, and John entwines their fingers, pulling Sherlock inside.

The door closes behind them, and Sherlock once more stops John after a few steps in the quiet of the building. John stands and turns one step above him, both of them at the same height, now, and neither letting go of the other’s hand.

“Sherlock...?”

Sherlock blinks and bites his lips. How can he say that he needs... he just _needs_. Just a moment. They’re home. LondonBakerStreetJohn. Home. A year of so much pain and danger and near death... And then the finish line. A finish line of secret agents, family, explosions. Over.

“Everything has happened so fast.” Sherlock swallows. And out of all that has happened, one thing – one horrible thing – doesn’t let go of him. “You... with the gun. As if I’d never been away, reversing the situation I forced you into.” His eyes cloud.

John’s expression softens.

“And now... returning to England, MI6, barely a moment to breathe. To talk. About things.” 

John licks his lips. “Is this about the kiss? Because...”

“Of course it’s not about the bloody kiss!” Sherlock doesn’t let him finish. “It’s about what I have done to you!”

John looks at a desperately intense Sherlock, who is vibrating with uncertainty, now that they are home where everything is supposed to be as it was, except nothing is as it was, and Sherlock doesn’t know how to fix it.

“I am _useless_ at this,” Sherlock bursts out when he can no longer contain it. “I don’t know how to beg forgiveness. I never did anything that I felt warranted it. But I am begging _you_ , John.”

John keeps his right hand in Sherlock’s and uses his left to cup his cheek. “I have already forgiven you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen in innocent incomprehension.

John smiles. “I will freak out and be very mad at you once I’ve realised that you’re back and safe and not about to disappear, and then you will probably do something recklessly dangerous, far too soon... but I forgive you.”

Sherlock’s eyes frantically dart from one of John’s to the other, finding nothing but truth and love and _home_. He uses his hold on John’s hand to pull him closer and into a kiss that feels so much less painful, now that Sherlock believes that John will not abandon him for all that he has done to him.

John grants Sherlock his kiss, even allows himself to reciprocate for a moment, but then gently tilts Sherlock’s face out of the connection with a soft push at his cheek.  
“Sherlock... you don’t have to do this...”

Sherlock blinks, not at all happy at the interruption, and frowns. He knows that their pull, their desire, is mutual. Why, then, must John be so... He blinks, again. Oh. Of course. Stupid.  
“Don’t be absurd, John.”

John has to grin at the rebuke. He can’t help it.

“Do you honestly believe that I would kiss anyone to _make amends_?” He sounds truly insulted.

John giggles a bit, more at the tone of voice than the words, making Sherlock grin back. “No,” John agrees. “No, you wouldn’t.” Because... of course Sherlock wouldn’t.  
This time, it’s John who initiates the kiss, and they remain on their stairs for a long moment, all the cares in the world locked outside.

Only a hair’s breadth away from John’s lips, Sherlock eventually asks, “Since I wanted to go home so badly, it never occurred to me to ask,” he brushes John’s lips with his, again, “if you would have liked a holiday in Paris, as well.”

John hums into another kiss. “Hmm, no. I wanted to go home, very badly, too.”

They grin against each other’s lips in complete accord.

“Also, your brother will be busy shagging Bond in Paris. We should leave them to it.”

Sherlock pulls a face. “Kindly refrain from mentioning any family members in compromising positions.”

John snickers, keeping his arms around Sherlock’s neck and the man effectively in place. His smile softens. “They make a good couple. Surprisingly well matched...”

Sherlock agrees, nodding slowly. He remembers seeing them together, hearing Bond talk about his Quartermaster. He’s always known that Desmond isn’t quite as detached as his brothers... Still...  
“Surprisingly, yes.”

“I think he’s doing well for himself,” John adds, his smile suggesting that Desmond isn’t the only Holmes doing well for himself.

Again, Sherlock nods. “And he has Bond’s back, knows that he will always come back to him.”

John licks his lips and clears his throat. “Always...?”

“You have my word.”

John’s eyes sting, and he kisses Sherlock, once and firmly, before he does something silly like starting to cry, again.  
“Welcome home, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pulls John into a hug with his good arm and looks past him and up the stairs.

Home.

*

“ _Oh_ , that is fucking gorgeous!” Q’s voice rings out in the ridiculously expensive Parisian suite (of course with a view of the Eiffel Tower from the bed where he is currently having his brains fucked out), and he arches upwards, clings to James’ torso with both his legs and to the headboard with both his hands.

As he eases into the body beneath his, James growls into Q’s neck where he has every intention of leaving a mark that Q will have to parade around with for a week. (He expects Q to return the favour, soon...)

Q groans, loudly, and he throws back his head, breathing heavily, allowing himself to feel everything, again. Everything that has no place in the field or his department. Breathe in, take in, _take_.  
“James!”

James leaves off the neck and captures Q’s lips in a deep kiss, fucking and claiming his mouth with his tongue, relentlessly. He unclasps Q’s hands from the headboard and instead presses them into the pillow, entwining their fingers.  
“One might almost be inclined to believe that you only love me for my cock.”

Q laughs loudly as sensations of desire and excitement and danger and _James_ course through him.

James grins back, giving a series of particularly hard thrusts in response that turn Q’s laughter into unleashed groans.

“I fucking love you, James!” is really all Q can say, anymore.

“Gorgeous,” James gasps before he bites and kisses Q’s lips. “Such a good fuck. Best. Such a tight hole...” He babbles filthy nonsense, meaning every word, never stops biting the lips and drinking the moans. “Slick and tight and greedy hole. Q! My... my...”

“Yours. All yours, James. Always,” Q almost sobs the words and frees one of his hands from James’ hard grasp to reach between them and jerk his cock in time with James’ more and more erratic thrusts.  
“James. Oh, god, James, your cock. More. Just... more. Harder. Fuck! Fuck me!”

James now slams into Q’s willing body, watches Q’s eyes glisten with unshed tears of passion and emotion, watches his breath hitch, his body twitch and his mouth gasp.  
“Yes, come on, come on, do it, Q...”

“James!”

James fucks him through his orgasm, and when Q’s body goes limp, he once more takes a hold of the second hand, holds himself up with their fingers clasping tightly and ruts into the hole that is his and his alone. Fucks out the danger and worry and adrenaline and _love_ ; fucks the most beautiful lover he’s ever had.

When he comes undone, he falls into the open arms of his Quartermaster and feels gentle fingers run over his sweat-slicked back as he calms down. His breathing slows in the crook of Q’s neck, and he kisses the soft patch of skin.  
“I love you,” he murmurs. He doesn’t often feel like it needs saying, but it does, now. 

Sometimes, people are taken for granted, even though they could be taken away by whatever life throws at them, at a moment’s notice.  
James remembers Sherlock. Sherlock, who had to do the taking, himself, though it was the last thing he wanted to do. A shudder runs through him at the thought of having to play dead for the one person who makes life make sense.

Q tightens his hold, caresses James’ nape with soft fingers and kisses the top of his head.  
“I love you as much.”

James smiles and tilts his head back to look at Q. Yes, Q can still read him like a book.  
“It was good to have met your brother,” he says. “I understand better, now.”

Q rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch, amused. “Kindly refrain from mentioning my family members while your cock is still up my arse.”

James chuckles, which makes him slip out of his lover, and Q joins the laughter with his own.

Then Q pushes at James’ shoulder. “Off. You’re getting heavy.”

James complies and rolls to the side but immediately pulls Q close, again.  
“Do you think Sherlock is shagging Watson, yet?”

Q unsuccessfully tries to hold back a snicker.

James just grins.

“Well...” Q says after a moment and a kiss and a revelling hand against James’ cheek. “Sherlock isn’t like me. He might need some more time, if he’s even into that.” He blinks. “Which I _think_ he is, but, well, he’s Sherlock...”

James keeps to himself that he’s pretty sure Sherlock would be _’into that’_ from what he’s read between the lines of the talks they’ve had.  
Instead, he says, “I suppose they’re home, by now.”

Q nods. Then he smiles. “So am I.”

Bond smiles back and agrees with a kiss.

 

**The End**

* * *

**If you like my writing, please share my post on my RL[tumblr](http://ursulakats.tumblr.com/post/166323102961/qs-key-is-now-available-for-pre-order-release).** It would mean the world to this author ♥  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with me on this ride ♥
> 
> Please leave a note on the way out :)


End file.
